


Halflight

by paleogymnast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 14:36:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 77,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7577935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paleogymnast/pseuds/paleogymnast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Among the ashes of a dying world, Dean Winchester lives a hunted life. Haunted by dreams of impossible worlds, visions of his own murder, and the memory of his mother’s death, he struggles to get by, slipping under the radar, hunting in secret, evading the forces of the mysterious and enigmatic Chancellor and his apprentice, the Crown Prince, who together have banned magic, enslaved humanity, and enacted martial law on Earth. </p><p>When a chance encounter with a mysterious magic-user reveals a secret about Dean's past, Dean finds himself thrust into the heart of the secret resistance: light Fae, angels, and humans joining together to wrest back control from the demon-dark Fae alliance and restore freedom to the Earth. But the deeper Dean's involvement goes, the more he uncovers about his history, the more perilous and precarious becomes his life and the fate of all humanity. Who or what is the Unity of the Four Bloodlines?  Will he stand with humanity, or seal Earth's fate by supporting the Chancellor? Why does the Crown Prince seem so familiar? And what do the Unity and the Crown Prince have to do with Dean's visions of his own death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue & Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Additional warnings: Background (explicit) Sam/Ruby, graphic violence, gore, strong language, graphic sex, harm to a child, disturbing imagery, allusions to dubcon/noncon (not explicit)

  
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Halflight

**Prologue**

For millennia light and dark Fae, angels and demons, have battled for control of the myriad realms that make up reality. Earth has always been a safe-haven, the realm of humans, a place where light and dark can live together in harmony. But a little over 20 years ago, all that changed. Earth is now a scorched and largely barren wasteland, with humanity fractured and shaken, living under the unyielding thumb of the Chancellor and the Crown Prince—the boy who would be king. Humanity is oppressed. Magic is banned. The demon ranks are fractured. The light Fae are dying, while the angels wage a guerilla war against the forces of darkness. And an unholy alliance between dark Fae and demons may have amassed the power to make its reign of terror permanent.

**Chapter 1**  


"Riiiiing, briiiiiiing." The harsh, grating, trilling of the old, manual alarm clock dragged Dean Winchester from the fog of sleep and into the harsh light of day, or make that gloom of pre-dawn.

"5:00," read the analogue clock hands. Even if the tiny, one-room apartment Dean shared with his long-time friend Garth had had a window, this time of year at this early hour, there would have been no light to see. Just more hazy, glooming darkness.

It was fitting, really, Dean's life was, and had been for most of his thirty or so years on planet Earth, one long, uninterrupted, slog through darkness struggling to stay alive, struggling to get by, struggling to evade the governmental authorities who would—if he was lucky—shoot him on sight if they discovered who and what he was. If he was less lucky they'd have him disappeared where he would spend an untold amount of time subject to torture and experimentation begging for death while they came after everyone he loved.

That getting through his daily life was a form of torture in and of itself and that the sum total of people he loved was Garth didn't really matter. He would be no one's slave and no one's weapon. Besides, he'd promised to his mother, decades ago, that he would fight and live.

Dean didn't really know how or who or what he was supposed to fight, so he settled for continued life in defiance of the Chancellor's orders. 

It was enough. It _had_ to be enough. (He had nothing else.)

Bracing himself against the frigid cold of their essentially unheated apartment, Dean flipped back the covers and sat up, bracing himself on his left elbow as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet dangling mere inches from the icy floor. This was the fun part of each morning, testing himself, waiting, trying to see if his bad leg would hold him or if he'd faceplant on the narrow strip of floor between his and Garth's beds. In all honesty he doubted he'd faceplant. For one thing there wasn't enough open space on the floor. He'd probably pitch forward and hit his head on Garth's bed. Either way, he had to get out of bed, and he needed his legs to hold him. He just doubted today he'd be so lucky. 

As he sat, a spasm wracked his bad leg, cramping the muscles from his hip flexors down into his toes. His ankle cocked, toes curled up, he couldn't relax or straighten his foot, couldn't move his knee and couldn't lift his hip. His entire left lower limb was seized up. Digging his fingers into the painful knot of muscle and scar tissue on his left thigh, Dean breathed, in and out, in and out, wishing the pain would ease, fighting to get the muscles under control enough time get some movement back. 

He'd had a bad leg for almost as long as he could remember. It—and that was the crux of the matter, _it_ it had been bad enough he'd never known what exactly had happened to him—had happened sometime around when mom had died. Although the precise timing had been lost in grief and the inevitable passage of time, he knew it was roughly around then, although all hint of cause and effect had been lost.

In time the spasms passed, and Dean slowly eased into gear. He glanced at the clock. Almost 5:10. He had no time to spare if he wanted to make his 7:00 appointment, and missing that wasn't really an option. So, with a silent sigh, Dean shrugged off the cold, reached under the bed with its too-thin mattress and even thinner blankets, and retrieved his brace. It was worn and old, and not nearly robust enough for what Dean needed, but it fit _under_ his too-loose jeans and kept his leg from collapsing under his own weight. He was damn lucky to have it and to have been able to scavenge and scrounge parts over the years to keep it in working order and actually looking fairly solid. As he eased the brace's bulk over one of the most sensitive scars on his knee, wincing in pain when the brace made contact with his neurologically compromised skin, he thanked his luck that he was so damn skinny. 

Well it wasn't really a _good_ thing that Dean was frail (and face it, he was). To be honest, he couldn't gain weight even when he tried. Food was too hard to come by, and he could never keep rich foods down. But his relatively compact body meant it was easier to conceal the brace beneath his clothes, and that was key. 

Rumor had it the Chancellor casually executed anyone deemed to be _infirm_. It was anyone's guess what actually qualified as infirm—although Dean had a strong suspicion his leg would fit the bill—but regardless, any visible, physical sign of weakness or abnormality attracted attention, and attention was exactly what Dean didn’t want. 

After all, a mangled, barely functioning bum leg was hardly the only reason the authorities would want to execute him.

Dean pushed aside the dark brooding thoughts and prepared himself for another day in the cold, unrelenting drizzle.

Once upon a time, Seattle had been mild. Sure it rained (lightly) for a good part of the year, but it never got too hot or too cold. Dean could remember those days. He and Mom had first moved to Seattle when he was 9 and even then, just a couple of decades ago the rain had been lighter, the winters warmer and the summers cooler. Now, it was mostly miserable year round. Dean with his horrible asthma and chronic bronchitis (strike two against him in the Chancellor's book) spent most of each day feeling like he would never be warm. And if he just could get warm, maybe breathing wouldn't hurt so damn much. 

He wasn't bitter, really, he was just tired, exhausted. But no matter how much he might want more rest and more sleep, he'd prefer to eat than starve, and that meant dragging his ass out of bed at 5:00 a.m. so he could avoid patrols, skirt around security and get where he was needed. 

Pulling on a sleeveless undershirt, then a long-sleeved t-shirt, then a short sleeved Henley, and finally layering a flannel shirt on top, Dean shoved his feet into socks and boots, checked to make sure his brace was concealed, and grabbed his ever-present backpack. 

"Garth, man, I'm heading out. Be back later," he called out in the small space.

Garth seemed to hear him, but just grunted gibberish and muttered something about staying safe—or maybe it was about counting sheep. It was a little hard to tell when Garth was that quiet.

With a quick glance around the room, Dean eased open their door, freezing when the heavy hinges squeaked in protest, and slipped out into the hall, locking the door behind him. From there it was a matter of going down the "back" stairs the authorities never checked, and slipping out into the thin, early morning sun. 

**First appointment, 7am in Ravenna.**

7:00 am wasn't a usual client. They were a one-off referral with a nasty supernatural problem. Dean wasn't entirely sure whether it was a vengeful spirit or a straight up poltergeist. The former was common, but usually not quite that violent—the homeowners, a couple, had reportedly sustained broken bones as a result. The latter was really _damn_ rare and usually only showed up when something evil, truly evil got their first. He'd never actually faced a poltergeist, but both his mom's and dad's journals had painstaking notes and excruciating detail on the subject. It seemed they'd both faced a poltergeist, whether it was the same one or different one for each. It would be a challenge and interesting, more than he could say about most of jobs lately.

Dean split his time between under-the-table mechanics work, hunting, and translation projects (which were also under the table). He tried to squeeze in the translation when he was feeling the worst physically (the jobs were usually indoors where it was warmer and not so wet), and focused on mechanics more in the warmer, drier days of summer. The hunting came up whenever and wherever it was needed.

It turned out it was a poltergeist, and relatively easy to banish once he found the right cleansing ritual. An hour later it was done, the monster gone and the family safe. But when he finished, the client took him aside. 

“Here you go, Dean, but I’m afraid we’ll have to part ways.”

“Well your poltergeist is gone. I doubt you’ll have any more supernatural trouble.” He smiled, though it felt fake and fell flat. 

The client, a young mother, flinched at the mention of “supernatural,” and tried to smile, only to have it falter. “It’s not just that, Dean, you’ve been so good to us with keeping the car running, and getting packages back and forth from my parents outside the city… but the Police, they’re cracking down.” She blinked, and Dean realized there were tears in her eyes. “Our neighbor was executed for treason last week. An entire family the next block over. They had a ghost and tried to get rid of it themselves. They’re all gone. We’ve got three different types of authorities in every week for inspections, and I’m just… For you as much as for us, it’s too dangerous. I hate to let you go ,but.”

Dean’s heart fell. That was good steady work, good money too. The client’s parents always gave him a little something extra. And it would be that much harder to get by without this business. Still… he didn’t want to get caught. He’d be executed or disappeared so many times over—“Thanks,” he said at last, taking her hand and shaking it. He took a deep breath, smiled, and this time it actually reached his eyes. “It’s been a pleasure working with your family. Just stay safe. I don’t want anything to happen to you guys without me here.”

**Second Appointment, 2 p.m., in Wedgwood**

His afternoon’s work was almost a repeat of the morning, or so it felt. “Thank you so much, Dean,” Mr. Tibbets said, shaking his hand. “We really appreciate everything you’ve done to keep our lawn mower working and the car running, but it’s just not safe anymore, for you. They raided Ms. Gomez’s garage last week. They found an undocumented moped and letters that didn’t bear the official seal. Rumor has it she’s gone to a labor camp and her cousin who was writing to her was executed. It’s not worth the risk. You’ve gotta stay safe.”

But it didn’t end there. All day, no matter where he went or what he did, more than half of his regulars were telling him goodbye. 

The next day, the story was the same. Dean went from pissed off to panicked to almost desperate. If this kept up with no work, he wasn’t going to be able to afford food, let alone medicine or anything else he might need.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Come on, Dean," Garth's voice called out permeating the fog of sleep swimming in Dean's mind. The insistence in Garth's tone suggested it wasn't the first time he'd tried to rouse Dean.

"Hmmf," Dean grumbled, resistant to let go of the warmth and comfort of his sleeping state. He'd had the dream again. (He always had the dream.) And as always, it was more disconcerting than comforting. It made no sense. It was fanciful and _fantastic_ , in that it had to be something out of pure fantasy because there was no where on earth that pristine and white, so perpetually doused in snow. Also, in the dream it was always snowing, when in reality, Dean _hated_ snow. Whenever the greyish sludge fell from the Seattle sky he wanted nothing more than to hide inside for days until it was melted and gone, because in the cold-damp-wet he couldn't breathe. Hell, the last time they'd had an honest-to-god rainstorm (as opposed to the typical mist and drizzle), Dean had woken up on the hospital. With no way to pay the bill, of course he'd had to slip out and then hide out, and the infection that had set in had nearly killed him. But stupid or nonsensical as it was, as much as the dream unnerved him, Dean always found the sleep that followed strangely peaceful. So peaceful he resisted the call to wake and face the grim reality of the real world. 

"Come _on_ Dean," Garth said again, this time punctuating his words with a slap to Dean's foot. "We've gotta go meet with Kat. I've got a lead on work, real work, for both of us. Not cage fighting, not scaring away some damn ghost, get paid in actual legal tender credits work. You know, the kind you can use to pay rent, or buy food, or meds?"

"Ungh," Dean grunted before forcing himself the rest of the way to consciousness. "Okay, okay, I'm up, I'm up," he repeated, pushing himself from his stomach to his knees and slowly righting himself. He turned and sat on his butt, slowly inching his legs over the side of the bed, bracing against the pain he knew was coming. His left leg was still stiff from the poltergeist from two weeks ago. The monster had thrown him clear down the stairs, and done _something_ to his knee. Compounded on top of 30 years of other injuries, it still hurt and wasn't healing. Rather than getting better it was getting harder for Dean to walk without a limp.

Sure enough, the pain came when he tried to straighten it and he froze before he could stop himself, then slowly inched his leg out until his knee was close _enough_ to straight. 

He looked up and flinched again when he saw Garth looking at him, his big eyes betraying sadness before he schooled his features. Garth opened his mouth to say something, looked up at Dean, only for his face to screw up into a massive grin and let out a whooping laugh. 

"What?" Dean asked, defensively.

"How is it that you get yourself tucked into a bed for more than five minutes and you wake up looking like a five-year-old who just woke up from a nap?" Garth asked, motioning his hand towards the back of Dean's head. 

Dean reached up, felt his cowlick, only the hair was standing almost straight up in a big fluffy arch before flopping back down again. _Great_ , he thought bitterly, just what he needed on the day of a job interview, epic, comical bed head. 

"Just be sure to douse your head when you wash up," Garth said, stifling another laugh. "But hurry. We gotta get out the door in 10 minutes or we'll never make it."

Dean grunted again, rose, and hobbled towards the sink in the corner of the room. It wasn't a proper sink with real "running" water, but a giant basin with a drain in the bottom, jury-rigged to the building's old plumbing, with a hand pump next to it. The hand pump brought up water from the cistern underneath the building. The water was clean, as the cistern was fed by the city's drinking water supply, and the pipes were decent enough—not lead and not full of rust, but the pump itself was old and stuff and squeaky and heavy enough on a good day to exhaust Dean as he tried to fight gravity to hoist the water all the way to their 8th floor room. The other problem was that the water wasn't hot or cold. Rather it was whatever temperature the building's basement was, which on this cold, damp, November day was a chilly 40-something. The water was so cold as it sliced over Dean's hands and onto his waiting wash cloth that he gasped and sputtered, feeling his lungs hitch in his chest as he brushed the damp cloth across his skin. It sucked, but it was sanitary and wet. And since there was no way in tell they'd ever be affording a place with a shower or temp-controlled water, it was really not worth complaining. Of course, knowing that didn't make it suck any less when Dean pumped it over his head, cleaning his hair enough to be presentable and taming his bedhead while he was at it. But he persevered. Washed up, brushed his teeth, and took and swig of the uncomfortably cold water to rehydrate himself. 

By the time he was done, he was clean, but already exhausted and in pain. He grabbed the handful of pills from the old-style, day-of-the-week pill minder and dry-swallowed them, too wrung out to muster the strength (or resolve) to move the pump again. He toweled off with his tiny scrap of scratchy towel, and pulled on boxers, jeans, a t-shirt and an overshirt. Feet shoved into socks and boots, he grabbed his jacket, glad for the higher-class look of the leather, but wishing it were a little warmer, and paused to finger-comb his hair in the tiny sliver of tin mirror next to the door. 

He had circles under his eyes and his cheeks looked sunken, almost bruised, but all in all, he looked presentable. It would just have to do.

"Come on," he called out to Garth as he grabbed his knit hat and gloves, pocketed out, and opened the door. All told, they made it down the stairs and outside with 10 seconds to spare. Dean was thankful for the opportunity to catch his breath.

The bus public bus towards Kat's place was slow, smelly, freezing cold, and crowded. The ancient vehicle had no windows and was open to the air. Only the constant press of bodies and related body heat made up for the constant damp drizzle and wind that would have otherwise let the passengers frozen as the bus lurched along. As it was, they had to get off the bus a half-length from their destination in order to avoid the security checkpoint and patrols. Dean was grateful Garth got off without a prompting or hushed words and masked gestures. Garth could have made it through the checkpoint no problem. (Unless the military police were in a bad mood or the ordinary police were in a mood to show up the military police. Then they could both be counted on to make life indiscriminately miserable, no matter who you were.) But Dean knew better than to try. Even though he had passable fake papers at the moment, they always seemed to know. Could pick him out of a crowd. And his—well Dean knew better than to risk getting caught.

Still, he was grateful Garth was a good enough friend that he didn't complain, especially when Dean started limping as they picked their way over the rubble and detritus that clogged the side streets. Remnants of smashed up boat hulls, abandoned cars, and office equipment were the most common obstacles, and combined with the rise and fall of the slope it was pretty slow going. 

By the time they got to Kat's building, a partially gutted, partially exposed high rise that had once held high end apartments for the nearby office workers in their spires of glass and steel. Now it was just another burned-out husk that no one had the money or wherewithal to repair, but was too serviceable to tear down or demolish, so it limped along, it's pock-marked façade just one more blister on the burned and scarred face of a post-apocalyptic city.

"We're gonna be late," Garth said quietly. "She hates it when people are late."

Dean squinted at his battered wristwatch, thankful he'd remembered to wind it the night before, but wishing he could also afford or find a decent pair of glasses. "It's only 8:45. I thought you said she was expecting us at 9?" he asked uncertainly. 

"I did," Garth said squinting up at the building, shading his eyes against the midmorning sun. He looked back at Dean and offered an ironic smile. "I also neglected to mention her place is on the 12th floor."

Dean fought the inward wince and looked up at the building again. "I don't suppose this place has a working elevator?" It was wishful thinking, obviously. He'd been about 12 the last time he'd been on an elevator. He had it on good authority there were some functional elevators in Seattle, but they weren't any parts of the city he frequented. 

"Nope," Garth said, with a little regretful shake of his head. 

He didn't suggest he make the climb and leave Dean to fend for himself, which was what was so awesome about Garth. He offered solidarity and found value in what Dean had to offer, where so many would see (had seen) a liability, a cripple, another mouth to feed, a burden with too many issues whose talents and skills were just as likely to get him in trouble with the authorities as it would help someone out. But Garth wasn't like that. And Dean owed it to him to meet him halfway. 

Dean nodded, taking it all in. "Is there at least a railing on the stairs?" 

"I'm pretty sure there is," Garth answered, forehead scrunched like was trying to remember. "At least on the south stairs there is."

"Then we'll make it," Dean promised. "Come on," he said as he set off toward the other end if the block to where the south stairwell would undoubtedly be. 

Garth just laughed and followed after Dean, and if he dogged his steps a little, especially when Dean climbed over the broken concrete barriers in the middle of the block, well, neither of them said anything. 

The stairwell was remarkably clean and lacked the familiar stench of pot, piss, and unwashed human that permeated most tight, enclosed spaces. The reason for that—and the damp-slick concrete stair treads—was soon apparent, when they rounded the fourth floor and Dean realized this stairwell was open to the elements, the last edge of the building still standing next to the gaping maw left where much of the rest of that end of the building had been bombed away and collapsed. The railing was intact though. And Dean used it to pull himself up the stairs, keeping his weight mostly on his better leg, and pushing the pace, going as fast as he could. His lungs were burning by the halfway point, but still he pressed on. He slipped twice, once on the eighth floor, where an accumulation of yellow-green algae and a divot in the steps that allowed for the accumulation of a little bit of standing water, sent his good leg skidding backwards, and again halfway between the 10th and 11th floors, when his good knee gave out, not able to take the accumulated strain. Both times, Garth was there to keep him from falling (either down the steps or out of the building. And they made it to the 12th floor at about 8:58. 

Of course no sooner had they exited the stairwell when the strain of the exertion caught up with Dean and he found himself doubled over, hands on shaking knees, as he had a coughing fit. He swallowed compulsively, trying to force the tickle in his throat and the spasm in his lungs to settle down or at least give him a little bit of a break. When he was sure he could breathe well enough to not collapse, they set off again, Garth taking the lead this time, to show the sway to Kit's apartment cum office. 

They had to crisscross the 12th floor, skirting collapsed floor and exposed walls, leaving the building's original hallways for the improvised passageways that had developed over the years through interior apartments to make up for some of the impassible areas. 

When they arrived at Room 1203 on the northwest side of the building, Dean's watch still said 9:00 am, and Garth knocked on the door as fast as he could, even as Dean did his best to straighten up—figuratively and literally, and try to look as healthy and presentable as possible. 

"Garth, you certainly are straining the limits of punctuality this morning," a woman's voice said in an accent that was somewhere between English and Australian, "but you're not late." The sore of the voice stepped into view, a tall, slim, fit woman with long, slightly wavy dark hair dressed in a tank top, leather jacket and jeans. She focused on Garth first before turning her attention to Dean, and appearing to scan him up and down. She scowled slightly as she took in Dean's hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes.

"This is my friend, Dean, remember, the one I mentioned," Garth offered, breaking the awkward silence.

"Ah, yes," Kat murmured dismissively as she led them inside. 

Kat's place was part apartment, part office, both elegant and derelict, but easily three times the size of Dean and Garth's little cubby. A wall of windows greeted them looking out on the city, a sprawling expanse of hill and buildings with snippets of water just peeking through in the distance. The glass panorama took up the entire far wall save for one panel on the far right that had been replaced with plywood. Only unlike the plywood walls and gap-fillers with which Dean was familiar, this panel was smooth and painted with a forest scene and carefully anchored into the frame, reinforced around the edges. 

It was obvious the original kitchen had been gutted at some point, probably by looters scavenging for useful items like granite and copper pipe, and an unusual hodgepodge of kitchen appliances had been shoved in in their place. There was a fairly new (for certain values of new) looking farmers sink hooked up to real plumbing on an open framework that might have originally started its life as sawhorses that had since been repurposed and repurposed again. To its left was a stand-alone bathroom vanity complete with genuine marble top, if Dean wasn't mistaken, and to its right a stainless-steel topped kitchen cart that Dean imagined had once been designed for a restaurant. Pots and pans hung from wrought iron circle dangling from the ceiling. On the wall to the left was a positively ancient avocado green refrigerator with a locking handle that was probably made (and out of style) long before his parents were born. It was between two more restaurant-style shelving units and a high-end oven with a brushed steel front that appeared to have been modified to run on propane. There was no range, but there were a series of burner-looking things running along the largest of the kitchen islands, and Dean realized belatedly that they were _plugged into the wall_. 

"You have electricity," Dean stammered in awe.

Ah, that we do," she answered, flipping a switch somewhere behind them and bathing the room in white light.

Dean looked up and realized the room's original recessed lighting was still intact.

"And a view of the Space Needle," she added, waving a hand towards the spindly spire that stretched towards the sky and was visible through the window next to the one that had been replaced by cardboard. "If I went up to the 20th floor, I'd have a real view of Downtown and the water, but then I'd never get clients to visit, so this is the compromise." She turned back towards the windows and followed Dean's gaze. "Once upon a time you could have looked out here and seen construction cranes everywhere you turn as far as the eye could see. Now the only cranes are the jury-rigged ones scavengers hitch up to pick scrap off buildings. How things change." She sighed, tsked, and continued. "So, since you boys were just barely on time today, what do you say we step into my office and get down to business?" She gestured towards the large square-ish table that occupied much of the open space between the gutted-and-refit kitchen and the open living space by the windows, which appeared to be much closer to the apartment's original furnishings.

She must have caught Dean eyeing the desks, or tables, suspiciously, because she added, "The office buildings around here were chock full of these things. Block after block, floor after floor, an entire neighborhood built on these. Now they're ubiquitous." She shrugged. "Have a seat."

Garth sat in one of the mismatched chairs across from Kat. Dean reluctantly followed suit, carefully lowering himself into the seat, trying to hide the wince as his knee grudgingly bent and he hoped the noise it made didn't carry. He looked at the desk. There was no computer. Just a cheap, ancient flip phone and stack after stack of ledgers. 

"Garth said you had work?" Dean hedged. 

Kat looked at him sideways, "Ah, a man who wants to get down to business, no small talk with this one." She side-eyed Garth, who was looking particularly nervous. She smiled at Dean, but kept talking to Garth. "He got papers?"

"Hey, I'm right here," Dean protested.

"I'm not talking to you," she said calmly and turned to face Garth. "Does he?"

"I—" Dean started to say. 

"No," Garth answered shaking his head. 

Dean looked from Garth, his _friend_ , to Kat, and unknown and felt the shock of betrayal rise in his throat, choking him. He trusted Garth. He _trusted_ him. How could he do this? How could Garth expose Dean like that? How could—

"I do, that's not true," Dean protested.

Garth just shook his head. 

"Forget it. This is bullshit!" Dean protested, and tried to stand, but his knee caught, and Garth's hand shot out to grab Dean's wrist, snapping vise-tight. 

"Sit," Kat said, gesturing at the seat, with two fingers, her voice casual. 

Dean complied, heart still hammering in his chest, his compliance borne more out of pain and the inability to straighten his leg, than out of any resolution of his panic.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," she said to Dean, laughing. "Of course he doesn't have papers," she sighed. "If he did, there's no way someone like him would be coming to someone like me looking for work. He'd already be employed as a shop boy? " she looked Dean up and down, a lascivious glint in her eye. "Or in a fleshhouse. Ah, definitely a fleshhouse."

Dean blushed and looked away. 

"Ah yes, definitely a fleshhouse. Look how shy and precious he is."

"Don't," Dean protested, but his voice caught and he was coughing and he could tell from the catch in his throat, it was going to he one of _those_ fits, where he coughed and coughed until his lungs were raw and his throat was bleeding, and he couldn't get any air. He covered his mouth with his fist, embarrassed and sure whatever hope he had of still getting a job was going out the window with each heaving breath.

"Oh and he's sick too," Kat continued, sounding smug, bit with a hint of sympathy. 

Garth just shrugged. 

Dean kept coughing, and Kat's expression shifted from bemused to genuinely concerned. "Garth," she murmured, get the tea and my medical kit." She glanced up at him, "It's on top of the refrigerator."

 

Garth stood and returned moments later with a kettle, a wicker basket of some sort of leafy thing that Dean supposed was tea, and a soft-sided cooler that was so ripped and torn, Dean doubted it was keeping anything cold. Garth left again and returned with a mug and some sort of strainer. 

Dean suddenly found himself wondering exactly how well Garth knew Kat, given that he apparently knew where she kept her tea supplies. 

Kat gave a small grunt, and Dean looked up to find her eyes almost dancing, expression concentrating so hard she looked like she was surprising a laugh. He failed to see what was so funny, given the whole hacking up a lung thing, but Kat went to work fixing tea, so he kept his mouth shut. Not like he could stop coughing long enough to say anything, anyway. 

Kat pressed a button at the base of the kettle, while she poured some of the leafy, flowery stuff into the strainer and rested it on top of the mug. Interpreting Dean's confused gaze, she said, "Batteries, or rather battery. The rechargeable kind. One of the perks of my... business is the opportunity to acquire rather uncommon bits and bobs of technology. And the benefit of living in an environment with electricity is that it gives me a place to recharge things like phones and kettles."

The kettle beeped, and Kat poured the water from its spout over the tea and into the mug, pushed it in front if Dean.

He just stared at the cup, the water inside turning a funny purple-brown color.

Meanwhile, Kat busied herself with the medical kit, unzipping and rezipping compartments, and pulling a variety of powders and substances out of vials and dropping minute quantities into a small patch of cloth. Seemingly satisfied, she funneled the accumulated substance into a form of some sort and compressed the contents into the shape of a large pill. As she did so, Dean could have sworn she held one hand over the press for a moment as she muttered something. He thought he saw a flash of something blue or maybe orange, and then it was over. It should have been sinister, mysterious, foreboding, but instead it reminded Dean of his mother, and he felt a faint wash of warmth and peace rush through his chest. 

"Drink up," Kat said pushing the mug towards Dean and rousing him from his contemplation, "and Swallow this." She held out her hand, waiting for Dean to offer his palm and take the newly pressed pill from her. 

"No," he said, shaking his head, but that just set off a new round of hacking.

"Dean, it's okay," Garth reassured, resting one hand on Dean's wrist. 

Dean just glared, still not entirely convinced he could trust Garth. 

"I've had the tea lots of times, it will help with your cough. Soothe your throat."

Tentatively, Dean took a sip, moving the strainer out of the way. As he set the mug back down, Kat, moved his hand to put the strainer back in it. 

"Keep letting it steep, but keep drinking, and take this," she said again, a little more forcefully, shaking her hand in front of his face. "I assure you, I'm a fully trained apothecary and I have no interest in killing my clients. You're no good to me as a dead man, and from what I can tell, that's what you're likely to become if you don't _take this_."

"It won't kill me," Dean muttered. 

"What?" Kat asked.

Dean shook his head. "Just something my mother used to say." And who knew how valid considering that from what he could tell it, whatever _it_ was, had killed _her_. He took another sip of the tea, realized his throat was feeling less raw, less itchy, and reluctantly reached his hand out for the pill, turning his right palm face up. As he did so, his sleeve pulled back, revealing the edge of the mark there. He wasn't sure if it was actually a birth mark or a scar, but it had been there as long as he could remember, shaped like three crescents interlinked and slightly, raised and glossy, and stark white. _Always wear long sleeves and don't show your wrists to anyone._ It was another one of his Mom's rules. He'd never understood why, but now he he was starting to get a clue.

Kat moved to drop the pill in his right hand. As she did so she glanced down and seemed to freeze. 

It took a few moments for Dean's brain to kick into gear. He wasn't sure why he didn't pull back his hand, but the whole situation was so _odd_ and unexpected. Truth be told he hadn't known she was _looking_ at his wrist or even that his sleeve had slipped back, at first. He was still focusing on breathing and not coughing. But then Garth looked at him with a mix of confusion and curiosity and Dean realized that the moment had strung out just a little too long.

Be looked down at his wrist, then up at Kat, and realized she was staring at the mark, transfixed. He moved to pull his hand back, cover his wrist, but Kat moved. So fast or so sudden, he didn't realize she was reacting until she had reached out with her other hand to steady Dean's wrist and take another look. She released the pill into Dean's waiting hand, but wouldn't let him go.

"Hey!" Dean protested, jerking back with his elbow to try to break her grasp, but his hand didn't move. Her grip was almost paralyzing.

"Where are you from, Dean?" she asked, her voice taking on an edge that sent a shiver Down Dean's spine. 

She rubbed her thumb over the mark, and Dean could have sworn it _tingled_. In a good way, if there was such a thing. It felt more like something exciting and electric, tiny vibrations coursing out from the mark and racing up his arm to his chest where his heart felt warm, safe, kinship. He'd never felt anything like it, and come to think of it, he couldn't remember anyone—even his mom, or when he was really young, his dad—touching it. 

He didn't answer, couldn't really figure out what to say (or how to speak). He just wriggled his wrist.

Kat moved her thumb again, and Dean's breath caught in his chest. 

"Take the pill," she said, her voice softer again.

He looked down at the tablet in his hand, uncertainly.

"It will help, promise," Kat said, releasing his wrist. 

He didn't want to take it, just to spite her or just because the whole situation was fucked up and uncertain and for all he knew it could kill him... but for some reason a part of him, deep down believed her, knew she wouldn't try to kill him, that it would help, and he needed it. Dean could feel his breath catching in his chest, threatening to turn his lungs inside out. So he did as she said, moved his hand to his mouth, and swallowed, chasing the pill with another swig of tea. 

Kat seemed to watch him, curiously, as if waiting to see if it worked. 

It took about thirty seconds and a second sip of tea, but eventually Dean could feel the pill dissolving, and with it, the pressure and tension in his lungs seemed to dissipate, the tickle in his throat eased. "Thanks," he said with genuine gratitude. "I wasn't really expecting anything but maybe a job."

Something like embarrassment or shame flickered across Kat's face, and when she spoke again, her demeanor was much more brusque. "Welcome," she grunted, "but you're not much good to me if you can't actually work." She folded her hands on the table in front of her and learned back. "So, where are you from? You don't have papers, is there a chance you could get them?"

The question made sense, but Dean couldn't shake the feeling she had some ulterior motive.

"Kansas, I think, at least I think I lived there as a kid," he answered truthfully. "But my mom wasn't from there. My dad," he shook himself, he might have been from there, but I don't think his family was from there."

"When did you come to Seattle?" Kat continued.

"When I was 10," he answered.

"Which was..." Kat prompted.

Dean realized she didn't, couldn't know how old he was. So that answer didn't provide much information. He considered a flippant or coy answer for about a split second, but thought better of it. Kat unsettled him, but then again, he was drinking soothing, warm tea and could breathe more easily than he had in years, so maybe she really was trying to help Dean, or at least had his best interests at heart to the extent Dean's well-being could directly benefit Kat. So instead, he added, that was in 2010, about six months after everything went to shit." (Or well, more to shit, if he was honest about it.)

"Hmm," Kat pondered. "And you've been without papers this whole time?"

"Yes." 

"So, what exactly have you done to get by, make a living for the last 20 years with no papers, a bum leg, and what I can only assume are a host of chronic medical conditions," Kat asked bluntly, skewering Dean with a searching glare.

"Hey" Garth protested. "You said you could get work for both of us. I didn't bring him here for you to harass!"

"It's okay."

"No it's not—" Garth protested.

Dean kicked him with his good leg under the table. "Garth, really, it's okay. She's just doing her job. Being a good businessperson." And honestly, he didn't mind. Sure her words stung a little, but compared to the crap Dean had grown up with, it was nothing. At least Kat was honest. He hadn't realized she'd noticed his leg, and there was a not-so-insignificant part of him that prided himself on passing, showing no weakness, and that part was a bit miffed, embarrassed, and annoyed, but the rest of him...

If Kat was paying that close attention, maybe it meant she'd try to find work for him that wouldn't get him killed. So, already thankful for the tea and medication, he thought Kat had earned some honesty. "I'm a mechanic. Given the right tools and enough space, I can make almost anything with an engine run. I'm decent with the electric stuff, computerized shit, bit I'm better than pretty much anyone out there, at least in this city when it comes to pre-war tech." He shrugged. "There are enough people out there who want something fixed without advertising it to the authorities, so it works out well for them that I've gotta stay off the government radar. I also do a fair amount of courier work. I know how to get around without arousing attention, I can get around checkpoints unnoticed."

Kat was listening, but she just looked at him expectantly, as if she knew he was holding back. 

"And I'm a hunter."

Garth's face went white at the mention, his eyes wide and panicked. After all, the official government position was that the supernatural did not exist and anyone caught practicing magic or interfering with supernatural entities were disappeared. If you were very, very lucky you were executed. A little less lucky, you'd come back mind wiped and reprogrammed—it was never clear how much of the individual's personality or identity remained and it was widely understood that anyone who came back was essentially a walking, talking bug, recording and transmitting everything anyone around them did or said to the authorities. If you were really, really unlucky, they didn't kill you or use you as a spy. Instead you disappeared into an unnamed, unmarked government lab somewhere where the best science and magic money could buy used you as a guinea pig, unmaking you and destroying you over, and over again, while you gave them everything and they made you into a weapon to eventually destroy everyone you'd ever known or loved.

"I take it you don't mean illegal hunting of game animals for food, hides or recreation," Kat observed.

"No, ghosts, poltergeists, vengeful spirits, the occasional werewolf or vampire, mostly supernatural and magical beings and entities that are causing trouble for folks. They call me and I dispatch the monsters before the government gets called in and a whole bunch of people's lives are ruined." Because even _encountering_ supernatural beings in a way that drew attention was enough to get you in trouble with the government. They wanted the monopoly on magic and power, and anyone who saw through the masquerade was a threat.

"Have you hunted any demons?" Kat hedged.

"One or two. My dad taught me a couple of exorcisms when I was really little, when he was around. I can't say I particularly like them, but they work for me, and I've managed to send a couple of low-level demons back to hell or wherever it is they come from." Dean suppressed a shudder at the recollection. Exorcisms _hurt_. Afterwards he felt drained, listless, like he'd tried to tear out a chunk of himself. He had the impression exorcisms weren't supposed to feel like that, and he remembered his dad's hesitancy to teach him (and his absolute refusal to train his brother), and he'd always wondered... but didn't let the thought go any further. He rarely acknowledged he'd ever had a father. Never mentioned he'd once had a brother. Mom was hard enough to talk about and she'd been there off and on until he was 13. He looked over at Garth, and sure enough, Garth was looking at him like he'd grown another head. Dean had never mentioned his Dad to Garth, and Garth was probably wondering if Dean was telling the truth or lying through his ass to throw Kat off.

"How about pixies, red caps, boggarts, have you ever hunted any of them?" Kat asked.

Dean couldn't help the frown that formed as he thought back. He wondered if Kat was being specific and asking about his skills in hunting particular creatures, if she was pulling random names just as an example, or if she was trying to tie Dean to specific crimes—in which case any detail Dean gave would be driving another nail in his coffin. Then again, if she wanted to turn him over to the authorities, she already knew he was _illegal_ as the government was so fond of calling it, the results _might_ be slightly less horrible if Dean was picked up on just charges of unlawful presence and unauthorized work, but with the mark on his arm, and the vague notions he had about his parents' origins, he was pretty sure any encounter with the authorities would end with him dead (or wholeheartedly wishing he was). Besides, he was pretty sure Kat's apothecary work wasn't fully licensed and she technically should have turned him in the first moment she'd learned anything remotely illegal about Dean. The authorities weren't particularly keen on "but I was trying to dig for more crimes" as an excuse. That's what the police—usually the Military Police—were for. 

So Dean answered as best he could. Honest could help if she was looking for someone with particular hunting experience or familiar with a certain type of lore, and he couldn't really get more screwed than he already was. "Well, boggarts, I've dealt with a few—maybe five friendlies and two not-so-friendlies, if you know what I mean." He didn't mention that the friendlies had _really_ liked him and practically rolled over and did his bidding the second he showed up. "I killed a red cap once. It was... unpleasant, and I wouldn't hunt them on a regular basis. I'd probably think twice before facing them again." The hallucinations on top of everything else about the (literally) bloody, murderous monsters were bad enough that he hadn't caught more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep for two months after that fiasco. "And well, pixies," he continued, "there are so many... _kinds_. If you're talking about overall encounters with anything in the pixie family, it's in the hundreds. If you want me to get more specific... we could be here all day."

Kat gave him a little nod that seemed _pleased_ before turning back to her own notebook and ledger. 

Dean drank more of his tea in the somewhat awkward silence that followed. He could tell something was _off_ , and he didn't think it was anything he'd said. Kat gave no indication his answer had displeased her or upset her in some way, if anything, Dean thought she seemed suitably impressed. It was rare he got to show any genuine pride about his work, and it felt good to speak out, not sell himself short. So, no, it wasn't something he'd said, it was something Kat was holding back, but what?

"That's a rather impressive résumé. Tell me, have you ever been caught?"

That wasn't it. Dean shrugged. "I'm still here, aren't I? I've lived this long, I'd like to say I'm pretty good about steering clear of the authorities. I kinda have to be, or I'd have been dead or worse a long time ago." He took a long sip on the tea, finishing it and waited for Kat to ask her real question.

"I suppose you would be," Kat said contemplatively. She made another notation in her ledger. "Tell me, have you ever hunted an Angel?" She tried to sound casual like it was a throw-away question, but the intensity of her gaze belied her casual demeanor revealing the import of the question.

"I've never been convinced angels are real," Dean admitted. 

Kat cocked an eyebrow at him, while Garth's eyes darted back and forth between Dean and Kat as if watching an utterly transfixing, but totally unexpected ping-pong match. 

"Just because demons are real doesn't mean angels exist. Living in this world, I find it hard to believe there's anything, any being out there that's all goodness and light personified, self-sacrificing, beneficent, all that bullshit. And if there was, why would I be hunting them? And what if they exist, but they're not like that?" Dean shrugged. "From what I've heard in rumors and shop talk, the only way to kill an angel is with some special knife that only other angels have, so if that were true, I don't see how I could possibly hunt or kill an angel. So if whatever job you have lined up for me requires angel-killing skills, then I'm afraid I'm not your guy. But if you're looking for a mechanic, or a courier, or a damn good hunter, then I'm your guy." He let out a long, shaky breath. Because that was why he was here, after all. To find work. To find something more regular and stable that wouldn't have him running and scrambling to make enough to feed himself, something that he could do even sick as he was. He was feeling _infinitely_ better after the tea and the pill Kat had given him, but he had no illusions that it was permanent.

Kat looked at him for a moment, cocking her head, her gaze studying, before she put down her pen, leaned back, and folded her hands. "Well," she cast a sideways glance at Garth, who relaxed upon eye contact, "I have to say, you're even more _impressive_ than Garth had made you out to be, and I think you'll be ideally suited to the sort of work I have a pressing need for."

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, "And what sort of work would that be?"

"A little of this, a little of that. I am confident I can put _all_ your skills to work, not the least of which is your discretion and talent for evading and avoiding government scrutiny. If you think you're up for that and you're willing to commit, I would be happy to add you to my payroll."

"That sounds great!" Dean answered honestly, despite a lurking kernel of doubt in the back of his mind that there was something else, something important that had transpired in their conversation that he had not quite grasped. He reached out his hand and began to stand.

"I do have one condition," Kat added.

Dean froze, letting himself fall back in the chair? biting his lip to hide the flare of pain that shot through him from his bad leg. 

"It's nothing bad," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "This job will be demanding, challenging, it will push you to your limits and test your skills. I do not want to see you fall prey to the authorities, and that means I need you at your best. So, if I give you some tea and some, medications that can help you, you take them."

Dean looked at the tea, the apothecary supplies, and back at Kat. "How do I know you're not trying to kill me."

"You're no good to me dead."

"You can't cure me. I mean even magic—"

"Just trust me when I say, I know a fair sight more about your illness than you do," Kat replied. 

Dean considered it for a moment, then held out his hand. "Deal."

Kat took it and shook, her grip firm. "I'll have work for you by noon tomorrow. Think you can make it back here then?"

"Better make it 12:30, a little after," he answered after careful consideration. "I assume you don't want to begin this working relationship with me getting picked up by the military police or establishing any kind of pattern that can lead back to you?"

"That would be, no, I don't. 12:30 works better for the check point schedules?"

Dean nodded. "And the shift change, rolling lunch breaks, that sort of thing."

"Then I will make that work," Kat agreed. "But I do not tolerate tardiness. Any later than 12:35 and I won't have use for you."

"Deal," Dean answered again. This time when he said it an _echo_ of something else to shake loose in the back of his mind. It wasn't something he remembered, he was sure of it. The flashes of recollection that sprang to the fore were older than anything he remembered. And he thought they were someone else's memories... but how he could _have_ someone else's memories, he wasn't sure. The sickening feeling of betrayal of self, damnation, and shame that surged in his gut wasn't his. And it had nothing to do with this agreement right now. He knew that with a sort of certain clarity he didn't understand, but trusted implicitly. So he pushed the sudden sense of revulsion to the back of his mind and smiled

Something in Kat's expression made Dean think she'd seen what he was thinking or at least the confusion and conflict it had caused. But she said nothing, just squeezed Dean's hand one more time and released. 

"Now, Dean, thank you for coming all this way. I hope you don't feel left out, but I need to have some time with your friend Garth before you both leave. Do you mind waiting in the hallway?" Her smile was so genuine she almost made Dean feel warm and fuzzy inside. Still, she packed up a portion of tea and various medications which she hastily pressed several more pills. When she was done, she held a small parcel out for Dean to take.

"Thank you," he said, and meant it. He held the package carefully and let himself out into the hall. Standing there alone, Dean was struck with a sense of surreality. It hadn't even been an hour since he and Garth had arrived, but in some ways he was a completely different person than he had been upon entering. He felt better than he had in years, and now he had the prospect of a real job, or at least regular work—the kind of work that could bring stability to his life, let him feel, well, normal. It felt too good to be true. 

And maybe it wasn't. Maybe this was a dream or a delusion. Maybe the military police had captured him the other day when he had a close brush with one of the checkpoints. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe Kat was gathering more intel to sell him out to the authorities... But he couldn't come up with a scenario where Kat could betray him without facing severe punishment herself, and as for being already dead or captured, well if he couldn't tell, then he had never been able to tell and wouldn't be able to do anything about it. He would just have to enjoy his afterlife. The only person he'd ever had to betray was himself. 

All in all, Dean's mood settled on cautiously optimistic. Standing there in the hall, he tucked his hands into his pockets and waited. He hoped Garth wouldn't be too long, because honestly, out here, the semi-derelict building was disturbing. 

He found his attention drifting back towards the room he'd just left. If he focused, let his hearing drift out, he could just make out snippets of the conversation going on behind the door.

"I really am quite impressed," Kat was saying. "Your conversations had suggested to me that Dean had hidden depths, but I wasn't expecting such a... versatile and experienced hunter."

Dean couldn't quite make out Garth's answer, or the comment Kat said that followed, but he did catch Garth's response to _that_ —"well, I didn't know. Some of that I didn't know. I'm just glad you can still find work for him."

Kat laughed, the sound was both happy and mysterious, like she was genuinely pleased that she had work for Dean (and that he would be an asset for her), but there was something more... almost sarcastic, definitely serious, maybe amazed and definitely intrigued. He wondered what was behind it. What had she seen when she looked at his wrist and noticed the mark there? 

What was it about the mark that had always made his mom so _scared_?

He was lost in thought, but Kat's next question grabbed his attention, busting through any shame he might have had about eavesdropping. He found himself leaning closer to the door, focusing trying to catch the response.

"So tell me, where is Dean from?" Kat asked.

He heard Garth's inhaled breath, could see Garth's expression in his mind's eye—he was caught, wide-eyed, probably doing a good impression of a fish as he weighed the conflicting obligations of protecting Dean and Dean's secrets and his loyalty to his boss, someone who had great power—probably way too much power—over his _and Dean's life_. 

"As far as I know, he's from Kansas," Garth admitted at last. "But I've only known Dean since he was 15, and he'd already lived here for years at that point. I don't—like Dean said, I don't think his parents were from Kansas, but I don't know where they were from. I—before today Dean never mentioned his dad. I didn't know Dean knew his father. I'd say he was making that up, but I know Dean, and he wasn't lying when he told you that." 

There was a pause, during which Dean could hear some sort of paper rustling, but no footsteps or chairs rustling, so he leaned closer to the door and kept listening. 

"Does it matter? Where Dean's from? Will it keep him from getting work or, or of you know where he's from could you help him get papers for real?"

Garth sounded so terribly hopeful and optimistic, Dean's hear clenched. He knew Garth cared about him, even if Dean felt like a burden most of the time. No matter Kat's answer, Dean knew there was no normal life for him. Even if he could get papers, it wouldn't erase that he'd been living and working in Seattle without papers for most of his life. And he couldn't hunt, couldn't help people if he was living and working on the books. Hunting was illegal. As far as the government was concerned, magic and supernatural beings didn't exist. 

Nonetheless, Dean found himself hanging on the answer, holding his breath waiting for Kat to speak. 

"I have work for Dean no matter what," Kat began, her tone gentle and reassuring. "I am just curious to know more about him because the more I know the better fit the work I can give him will be." There was a pause and some more crinkling of papers. "Look, I can get papers for people sometimes, but there is no way given Dean's history that I could ever get him legitimate papers. And with his skills and experience, frankly he's safer—we're all safer—if he stays unofficial."

"I just don't want you to think you can treat him like he's disposable. I appreciate you finding Dean work, but he's special. He cares and he tries to help people, even when it's not a good idea," Garth replied, a line of steel running through it. 

"I know," Kat replied, then more forcefully, "I know. Don't worry I've got a good idea of what you mean. It's Dean's... unique perspective that helps to make him so valuable. I don't want to jeopardize him."

"So if you're not going to—"Garth began, "If you _can't _get him papers, then at least try to look out for him, steer him clear of governmental engagements."__

__"That is the plan," Kat added, her voice flat and calm._ _

__"I just don't want to see him get hurt, expecially when his coming here was my idea," Garth admitted._ _

__"I understand that Dean is very special. And I will do everything in my power to ensure he stays safe," Kat finished._ _

__After that there was the scrape of chairs and rustling of paper as Garth and Kat said their goodbyes and thanks. Dean took the opportunity to stop eavesdropping, straighten up, and make himself presentable. He took a few steps away grim the door and fiddled with his sleeves, both to make it look like he hadn't been eavesdropping and to make sure the mark on his wrist stayed covered. Just thinking about Kat touching him there sent icy fingers creeping up his spine and not in a _good_ way. He shuddered at the thought. It felt indecent, wrong, violative. Maybe he should take to wearing a wristband to cover it again like he had as a teenager and his hormone fueled preoccupation with sex had led him into some exceedingly dangerous situations. That had worked pretty well at ensuring no one got a good look at his wrist. _ _

__Behind him the door opened and Garth stepped out._ _

__Dean turned, half expecting to find Kat staring at him again, regarding him too closely, but she wasn’t there and the door was already closing._ _

__Garth was holding a sheaf of papers in his hands, careful not to wrinkle them. He was looking at Dean with something akin to fear mixed with pity, and that just wasn't right. Dean might be a lot of things, but he wasn't anyone's object to pity._ _

__"What's that?" Dean asked, nodding at the papers, hands shoved into his pockets to keep from doing something stupid._ _

__"Papers for a new job," Garth answered._ _

__"So Kat got you booked up too—" Dean cut himself off before asking when that had happened because he hadn't _heard_ it. A flare of guilt shot through him for eavesdropping. Garth was a good friend and he deserved better. After all, the eavesdropping had shown just how concerned Garth was with protecting Dean, keeping his confidences, looking out for him. Dean might balk at the idea he needed anyone or should be dependent on anyone, but actually having someone who _cared_? In this world that was something so rare you didn't spurn it or begrudge it, no matter how annoyed it might make you. You grabbed it with both hands and held on tight. Dean knew that and damnit, Garth was a better friend than he had ever realized._ _

___"Yeah, she has me doing carpentry, detail work on some sort of upscale remodel. It's ah—it's a government job. Or for government property. The pay's and the hours aren't bad. Kat told me the authorities come to her sometimes for craftspeople, when they need someone who really knows what they're doing, who has talent and skill and imagination." Garth's voice trailed off and he looked down at his hands, fidgeting, but careful not to wrinkle the papers he held._  
.  
"Wait, she said all that, in there," Dean waved his hands, "and she sends people on jobs for the authorities?" Dean asked lowering his voice despite the confusion and hurt he felt. They were walking now, picking their way back across Kat's floor to the south stairwell and out here, people could hear, see, people would report. There were always eyes open and ears listening. Even if the war had taken away some of the ubiquitous cameras and electronic surveillance through the sheer destruction of cameras and infrastructure and the cost and difficulty most ordinary people had in getting and maintaining phones, there were still literal human eyes and ears everywhere. And as much as Dean was inclined to keep his head down and stay out of other people's business, he couldn't say the same for most of the rest of his fellow humans. The combination of fear—abject terror—at getting caught _not_ reporting something, not turning someone in and the hefty penalties that carried (usually as harsh as the penalties for the underlying "crime," and the allure and benefit of taking steps to put oneself in the government's good graces and the very tangible and bona fide benefits that could provide worked to make most people the good little informants the government wanted. And paranoia kept most of them operating on the side of overreporting everything rather than bearing the risk of possibly underreporting or missing something. So streets, public places, hell _most_ places you could go weren't places you could actually feel safe carrying out a conversation. 

__Garth didn't answer until they were half way down the stairs in the shadow of the building's broken, bombed out wall. "They don't know about that. Don't have any involvement in the rest of her business. I get the sense they don't want to know. They just need people sometimes who have skills you can't find in the average trade academy and she funds people who can do what they need. All people with real papers and authorization to work. She handles the permits and visas and passes that people need to do the work, get on the jobsite. These are real," he added, breathing the words more than speaking them._ _

__Dean lurched back as if struck, then quickly shook it off, ever mindful of who might be watching. He peered cautiously at the documents Garth was carrying and sure enough, there was the tell-tale hologram, color-change edge of an official government seal. Dean had seen those on TV, a handful of times in the possession of other people—in their homes, on transit—and once on a document someone had showed to his mother. He knew enough to recognize it, and he'd always hoped he'd never have an opportunity to see one up close, because in all likelihood, the only place he'd see one would be on his death warrant. "You can't just walk—" Around with those, he started to say, only they were official government documents, so you _could_ , but walking around with them exposes invites thieves and overzealous cops (mostly police, the military police had the good sense not to harass people who were likely doing approved business) hoping to prove they were fakes. "You don't want them to get wet," Dean added instead. And it was a legitimate concern given that the Grey and cold November drizzle was coming down more steadily now. _ _

__Garth looked at Dean, warily and carefully folded the papers inside his jacket, zipping it up. "This is a good opportunity, Dean, and I'll be very careful."_ _

__"You shouldn't have to be," Dean muttered, sounding as guilty as he felt._ _

__"What?" Garth asked._ _

__"You shouldn't have to be careful. You earned that. You got those papers on your own merits. If I wasn't around, you wouldn't need to worry or be careful. You could probably afford to live somewhere nice. You—Look, if you want me to—it's probably safer for you if I move out, find somewhere else to stay and stay away from you for a while so you don't trip anyone's suspicions I—it's been great. You are a _great_ friend and I could never in a million years have hoped to find someone half as awesome as you. You're always looking out for me. You gave me a place to stay, let me live like a real person, you know? And now you helped me get a job where maybe I'll be able to take care of myself for a long time to come. That's—I don't have words to describe how awesome that is. But it's time I be as good a friend to you as you've been to me and move out, stay away. You've got this amazing chance and I don't want to screw it up, get you caught or in trouble." Dean shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and started to turn away, quickening his step as he walked outside into the hazy, blue, late morning light, acutely aware of the pain in his leg, the awkwardness of his limp, the tightness in his lungs, and the tick-tick-ticking of his wristwatch. _ _

__"Are you insane?" Garth said softly words almost spoken in Dean's ear. "You think I want a government job? You think I want that kind of life? It makes my skin crawl just thinking about breathing the same air as the authorities, but that's where I'm headed this afternoon, because it serves a bigger purpose. I'm doing this for you. Kat, everyone, all her employees on all sides of the business are doing this for you and people like you. For all of us, so maybe someday the world isn't like this. My job and your job, they both serve the big picture. They're both part of a bigger whole. Kat puts people with skills—artistic and scientific skills inside closely guarded government institutions where they get to do what they're best at, and she gets both the subversive pleasure of seeing individuals excel for the authorities in all the ways the authorities are allegedly trying to stamp out and she also gets something much more practical that you can't reliably get any other way than by going inside."_ _

__They kept walking, feet crunching over frosted, dead grass here and skittering against the shards of a broken bottle there. While Dean let the words sink in. Listened to what Garth wasn't saying. "Information," he realized aloud, head starting to jerk up to look at Garth before he realized how suspicious that looked and schooled his features, kept his eyes fixed on the broken pavement below, his mouth hidden and shrouded from any prying eyes, drones, or cameras that might be looking. "Spies. You're a spy."_ _

__"And so are you," Garth added. "So please cut out this self-sacrificing bullshit because Kat made me promise before I brought you in and then another 20 times before I left today that I would keep you safe as I can. Make sure you don't do anything stupid, don't push yourself too hard, and take all your damn meds. And I do not want to piss her off because she's scary enough when she's on your side; neither of us want her as an enemy. And can we please, please slow down because I'm in pain just looking at you."_ _

__"Okay, okay." Dean purposely slowed his steps, the pain in his leg and back almost immediately easing from an air raid siren screaming to more of a constant ache, much less urgent and much more tolerable. "I won't move out and I'll take my meds and drink my tea and try not to do anything stupid," Dean said, exasperated. Because well _fuck_. He hadn't set out to become a spy, but he couldn't exactly tell Garth to stop. The world was fucked up for everyone and if Garth thought he could try to do something positive, then good for him. Dean wasn't going to fuck that up, even if that meant he'd just unwittingly signed up to be a spy in his own right. But still... "But you doing government work, doesn't that mean they'll have your address—our address—on file and potentially do spot checks or background checks or something?"_ _

__"That's the beauty of Kat's business. She's a broker. She provides talent, and technically we all work for her company, not the authorities. That means she could take a huge cut of our earnings and do other nefarious things, but that's not really her style. As a result, her address, not the individual employee's gets listed on the paperwork and she is responsible for doing the background checks and research to vet people for the jobs. They pay her extra for that and she does keep some of the money to keep her business going, but her methods of vetting people are a bit different than what they're expecting and a lot less, well costly."_ _

__"What do you mean?" Dean asked. Because as far as he could tell, Kat had just asked him a few questions and taken his word (and Garth’s) at face value. Granted she hadn't been vetting him for government work, but..._ _

__Garth cast him a meaningful glance. "The m word."_ _

__Dean's eyes widened, his mouth slackening into a wide "o" for a split second. Well that explained a bunch of things, including maybe the weird wrist grabbing and the icy sensation he'd felt when Kat had touched his wrist. "But if they have her address," he cast a side eye vaguely in the direction of Kat's building, "I mean that's not an improvement. It's not safe for her and she has records—"_ _

__"Her business address," Garth explained. "She has a tiny storefront in the old International District. It's got everything they're looking for and nothing she doesn't want then to have." Garth was silent for a few moments before he said, "You realize you can't tell anyone—"_ _

__"Of course," Dean shot back, barely keeping the unspoken "duh" out of his voice._ _

__"You know you never mentioned your father before," Garth said, his voice even quieter than before even though he was walking next to Dean now. "I'm sorry if that was something you didn't want..."_ _

__"It's okay," Dean said with a shrug. "Wouldn't have brought it up if I wasn't."_ _

__"Is he—I mean I know about your mom. I didn't know you knew who your dad was."_ _

__Dean couldn't help the bitter smile that crept up on him. "I didn't know him. Not really. He was around for a while. I lived with him when my mom was away, but I never really know anything about either of them and less about him."_ _

__"Is he still around?" Garth's voice was cautious, hesitant._ _

__"No. I'm not certain, but I'm pretty sure he's dead." It was one of those facts that _felt_ true to Dean, so true that he'd learned to trust that sensation above all else. He shrugged. "It's still just me. I don't have any family lurking out there."_ _

__"Don't you wonder about them sometimes?" Garth asked, and Dean's mind drifted back to the overheard conversation between Garth and Kat, Kat's curiosity, bordering on prying to try to find out more about the specifics of Dean's history. He now realized that meant that whatever Kat had learned by scanning him with magic, a lot of the specifics were missing. Garth seemed to be asking for his own curiosity and concern, though and not as an agent of Kat, so Dean felt inclined to answer honestly._ _

__"All the time, man, all the time. But doing any more than wondering is likely to get me dead. So I made peace with not knowing a long time ago." Still now that he knew a magic user... now that he knew someone, some group of people were actually trying to figure out a way around the authorities, he couldn't quite tamp down on that little ball of hope that maybe someday he'd get to know who his parents really were._ _


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Garth was up, out of their apartment and on his way by the ass crack of dawn the next morning. Dean wouldn't have even heard him leave, but Garth woke him, a gentle shake of the shoulder combined with patient, whispered words in Dean's ear, that had Dean grudgingly leaving sleep behind, rousing him out of the clutches of his dream—the dream. Today it was so vivid Dean half-expected to find himself laying in a drift of white powdery snow, cold and wet, but peaceful.

He still didn't know where the hell his dream images came from. Figured it had to be a story his mom told him somewhere, because Seattle didn't get snow, not really, and the only snow Dean knew of anywhere was dirty and grey and tainted with ash and chemicals and definitely not anything approaching clean or pure or refreshing. 

"Dean, here, come on, you promised." Garth's words permitted the fog in his brain and finally, slowly, Dean's eyes blinked open.

"Whassit?" he asked, pushing himself up, his back protesting at the angle because of course, he'd fallen asleep on his stomach and stayed there. He could tell he had the imprint of his thin, wrinkled pillow on his cheek and his hair was sticking up every which way, but he was awake 

"Come on, you gotta take these." Garth was holding out a pill, one of the pressed ones Kat had given him yesterday. 

Dean took it. Popped it in his mouth, because hey, he had promised, and he'd felt better yesterday than he had in years, more than a decade maybe, and he wasn't going to object to being able to breathe without the feeling of a ten ton weight sitting on his chest, without the sensation of crushed glass cutting into him with every inhale.

"Wait, with this," Garth prodded, proffering a steaming, actually _hot_ mug of tea. 

Dean took the mug, downed a big gulp, just managing not to sputter at how genuinely warm the tea was. It made the giant pill go down easier, but the liquid was so hot it almost burned his tongue. They hardly ever bothered with heating soup, tea, or anything else because of the effort it took. They had a small hot plate that could run on batteries or be hooked up to a tiny generator, but they hardly ever had fuel for the generator (and when they did, they used it to power their ancient toaster oven so they could get actually hot entrees and the like) and batteries were expensive and rationed just like fuel. Dean glanced over and saw a funky sort of battery pack—at least he thought it was a battery pack—attached to the hot plate. 

Garth followed his gaze. "One of the perks of working with Kat. I've actually had it a while, but didn't really know how to use it—I mean how to explain what it was and how, why I had it without you in the loop."

Dean squinted at it for a moment, not getting what Garth was driving at. So, he sipped his tea. Drank some more, until it dawned on him. "Oh. _Oh!_ " He tried to keep his voice quiet even as he thought of the little flash of energy—of _magic_ —Kat had used when she made his pills. If he was understanding Garth correctly, and honestly it was the only thing that made even a remote bit of sense, then Kat had given him, them, a _magic battery_ to use. "What the hell am I supposed to do with it when I'm done?" Because there was always the risk of government raids or even just nosy neighbors snooping and breaking in. A lot of things could be explained or overlooked, but magic wasn't one of them. Dean had a hiding spot—inside an apparently seamless metal brick that slotted near perfectly into the steel support beam that ran underneath their floor under the in conspicuously seamed floorboards under the corner cabinet—where he kept his really sensitive contraband items, like the few books his mom had given him, the journal he'd somehow inherited from his dad, and the handful of (for lack of a better term) spell ingredients needed for hunting. And there was another spot—taped to the inside top of the nonfunctional heating duct, behind the grate (which still screwed in) and about two feet back where it was pretty damn hard to reach, for the still really sensitive, but needing to be accessed more regularly, items like fake papers. Both of those hiding spots were pretty secure (especially because they managed to make the heating vent look like it was ignored, dusty, and never touched), but Dean still worried. But somehow Garth had this... thing... and he'd apparently had it on the apartment for a while without Dean noticing it. So it had to be somewhere secure. 

"Just slide it back into the teabox," Garth explained, reaching over to the tiny table and picking up the wooden box they'd been using for over a year to hold spices and teas—which they usually "brewed" room temperature, and showed Dean one corner, which now sported a sort of hollow void. "It blends perfectly. If you don't know it's there, you can't see it. Just push till it clicks."

"You mean I could have had hot tea all this time?" Dean realized aloud. 

"You tried to move out to protect me, yesterday. I'm not really seeing how I could have shown you this without prompting, well a fiasco," Garth admitted. "Just be sure to have another cup of tea and another pill before you leave, and put the damn battery back each time you use it. And don't be late, because Kat hates that." 

"Okay, mom," Dean complained, the reflexive, content bickering with Garth made the comment natural. Sure Dean still felt a fiery stab of pain in his gut, every time he said the word, but the reaction it always prompted from Garth was worth it. 

Garth spluttered and blushed and bit his lip. "You know I'm a poor substitute." 

"You do a pretty good job," Dean observed. "Just stay safe out there. Now that I know the kind of work you're doing—"

"You worry, I know. You are such a mother hen," Garth finished. He squeezed Dean's hand. Gave one last lingering look at the tea and the battery, and was out the door.

Dean stayed conscious just long enough to finish the tea and put away the battery (it really did disappear seamlessly) and set the alarm on his watch for 10 am. Before sinking back into his bed and passed out.

The faint beeping of his watch's alarm woke him at 10am as planned. This time he jolted awake suddenly, his heart racing, body drenched in sweat despite the relative chill of the apartment. He'd been dreaming. Of _course_ he'd been dreaming. He couldn't remember a single night or day he'd slept without the assistance of drugs or severe illness, anyway, when he hadn't dreamed. Only unlike most people who apparently experienced an ever-evolving, relatively unlimited repertoire of fantasies and horrors for their minds to work through when they slept, Dean had been treated to a continuously repeating playlist of a handful of dreams. Each one as vivid and sensory-immersive as real life, each one unchanging, unyielding, as real as real life, forcing him to live through it again and again and again.

Most nights it was the dream of running on snow up the winding path in the forested wood. Some nights it was standing looking out over an unfamiliar landscape at sunset feeling rested, content, in a way he never felt in real life. He could breathe easily and without pain, his body whole and unbroken. If he stayed in that dream long enough, eventually his mother would come and tell him how proud she was of him, what good work he'd done, how happy she was to have him for her son. That dream wasn't a memory—Dean was always a grown man in it, and his mother had died years before he'd approached adulthood. He'd also never seen anywhere that looked like the landscape in the dream, with its green and gold light that made the entire world look like gilded rite of spring. And his mother was somehow both older and younger than she'd ever been during their contemporary lifespan. She was youthful, almost a girl, her skin smooth and glowing and unblemished, while she seemed possessed of an aged and eternal wisdom far beyond the hears of her life. That dream made even less sense than running through a snowy forest, but he always felt so _good_ after he had it, even despite the sorrow it always roused as he felt his mother's loss anew, that he didn't care.

On other occasions, rarely, there was the third dream. Of course that was the dream Dean had before waking to his alarm. In it, he couldn't breathe. His chest felt crushed and full of fluid, like he was slowly drowning in his own body. His back and legs ached at first, with shooting pains like sharp, burning pokers _electrified_ every time he tried to move. And try, or _struggle_ was all he could do because he was tied to a post. His arms above his head, the immovable bindings on his wrists out of sight, his ankles similarly bound. His chest was cinched tight making it even harder to breathe and crushing his spine into the post behind him. He could never see what was binding him because there was something buckled tight around his neck, so tight that if he moved his head more than an inch in any direction he choked. 

In the dream there were two men, always two men, one incredibly tall with longer hair, the other not as tall with shorter, darker hair. Both were light skinned and both seemed inexplicably evil. They radiated power and seemed to spark with ozone and sulfur, reeking of _magic_. Dean didn't know how he knew it was magic, and when he was awake he wasn't entirely sure what he thought of magic—he couldn't deny that some sort of magic existed, from the spirits that haunted the earth to the purple sparks of Kat's "apothecary" activities, there was something, well _supernatural_ in the world. And the government certainly didn't want anyone to even _think_ about magic, which suggested it was real and the draconian policies were part of a cover-up. But Dean wasn't sure he believed in _magic_ as some sort of all-powerful force in the universe. 

But that was when he was awake. In the dream, he was always certain they were magical and very, very powerful. The taller man was more powerful than the shorter one, but the shorter one was more confident, ruthless. 

In the dream, the shorter man's eyes always turned black, pure black without a hint of iris or sclera in sight, and he always gave the tall man the same order: to _finish_ Dean. Finish Dean and he could take his rightful place. Dean was the only one who could stop him, and as long as Dean lived, they would be forever in danger. 

Dean pleaded. He begged. But always deep down he _knew_ his pleas would be unsuccessful. The tall man would torture him somehow, he just held up his hand and it was as if Dean was being pulled apart from the inside, some vital element of his being torn asunder, toyed with, taken to the brink and then let go again and again, each time stopping just short of death. Sometimes in the dream, Dean would pass out, only to be revived. Other times, like this one, he would stay awake through it all, certain of his death, wishing for it, but it would never come soon enough. Eventually the tall man would stab him in the gut, the sharp, barbed knife running Dean through, until he could no longer feel his legs and his lungs were filling with blood.

Then and only then, with his vision darkening, the tall man's eyes would flash black, and a look of grim determination would overcome him. He and the darker haired man would exchange words in a language Dean didn't know and or couldn't recognize, and then the tall man produced a long, silvery blade, shaped like some sort of giant pyramid-shaped dagger. The weapon always seemed to materialize from nowhere, and seeing it always shot a realization of doom coursing through Dean. This _would_ kill him. There was no way to survive it. The tall man said, "Goodbye, Dean," and thrust out, running him through. 

At that point Dean died in the dream and woke up choking, drenched in sweat, and panting. Only this time, for the first time, Dean had noticed a mark in the inside of the tall man's wrist as he stabbed. There on his wrist were three interlocking crescents followed impossibly stark white. The same mark that graced Dean's wrist, the same mark his mother had always told him to keep hidden, the same mark that had made Kat freeze in place.

Still shaking from the grip of the dream, Dean ran a shaking hand through his dripping wet hair. "Shit, _shit_!" Dean muttered to the empty room. the thing was, he didn't know if the tall man had borne the symbol in the past, or if it was something Dean's mind was supplying now to terrorize or confuse him. He couldn't be sure. Either way, he didn't know what it could mean, what it meant. Was the mark supposed to suggest he was evil like the guy who was torturing him, murdering him? Was it an indication they were equals? Did it mean anything? Something else? 

Whatever it was and why ever it was in popping up in his dream, Dean couldn't get the image to leave his mind. He shuddered, gulping around the bile that rose in her throat. He had to get up for real, get going, stick to the shadows, avoid being seen. Weary, grudging, he swung his feet over the side of the bed toward the floor flexing his toes experimentally. He'd need to really clean himself up. Carefully, he stood and worked his hands. Wordless and silent he got up and began the tedious job of cleaning himself up. The water in the pump was cold, and the freezing water stung as he scrubbed it over his skin. First, wash himself off. He used the scratchy soap and the even rougher wash cloth. Slowly, he scrubbed the salt and sweat off his skin, until he began to feel clean. 

The water was brutal. Shaving was even less pleasant as his near-rusty razor threatened to snag and pull at his skin. He seldom shaved for a reason, and the water was miserable enough that his fingers were getting a little numb. More than once he almost dropped the razor and thought he would come to regret his decision by slicing open his face. Only that didn't happen, and he felt much more confident (or at least less nervous), showing up to his new _job_ looking respectable, even if the absence of stubble made him look about 12. 

When he was satisfied based on his somewhat distorted reflection in their sliver of mirror, he pulled on the cleanest, least worn jeans he could find, and layered his shirts before finally pulling on am overshirt. It wasn't _professional_ by any means, but they were clothes he wouldn't be embarrassed wearing on a job he'd arranged himself, and they were the least likely to raise eyebrows from Kat or her clients. The only truly better clothes he had were the religious vestments he wore when he had to impersonate a rear to perform an exorcisms or deal with a vengeful spirit, and the kind of battered suit he painstakingly mended and wore when his fake papers had him impersonating some sort of mid-level bureaucrat. Without knowing what Kat wanted him to do, neither of those outfits seemed appropriate.

He stopped moving long enough to make more tea and take another of Kat's pills, careful to stow the contraband battery when he was done.

The trip across town to Kat's office (or home, home office?) was fairly uneventful, albeit lonely without Garth at his side. He didn't bother to take the semi-respectable route this time, just slipped into the back of the bus at one stop and slipped off the second it looked like the police might be nosing around, waited for the next bus and repeated. It only took him two busses before he got to close enough that he had to go off-road to avoid the checkpoints and patrols. He had to skirt around a few side streets that were currently occupied by either gangs or proper citizens, he couldn't be sure which and he didn't get close enough to find out. 

By the time he got to Kat's building he had 15 minutes to spare, and standing at the bottom of the dank, dark staircase on the south end he was grateful for every second, because without Garth as a distraction, the flights were exhausting and even with the tea and the pills his lungs burned and his bad leg ached by the time he reached the Kat's floor. He paused on the landing to breathe, willing the pain to subside. He set off again feeling shaky, and paused before knocking on Kat's door to compose himself, smoothing his shirts and hair, hoping the exertion of his excursion hadn't undone his preparations.

He raised his hand to knock, one minute early, when the door swung open suddenly. 

"Ah, punctual, thank you," Kat said, gesturing for Dean to follow her inside.

His hand was still raised to knock again, and it took a few moments to shake off his surprise and follow her inside.

Kat turned to look at him when she reached the table. She gave him a once over, really looking at him for the first time. "You're limping, why are you limping, didn't you take the pills and tea?"

"I did," Dean confirmed. "Just a little bit of a bad day." He suppressed the shudder that tried to shake him as he thought of the nightmare he'd had. "It's not a problem. I can be fast, get around fine. I can cover, no one will notice. I just didn't because you know, so..." he let his voice trail off.

"Sit," Kat said, pointing at the chair closest to Dean. 

It was also upholstered and firm, and not too low, and he sank into it, relishing how much better he felt as soon as his weight was off his leg.

"You misunderstand me," Kat began, turning to her mysterious apothecary kit on top of the refrigerator. "I had hoped I'd got the dosage right, but you must be worse off than I thought—"

Dean started to protest, but Kat stopped him.

"Not an attack on you. Quite the opposite. I'm impressed. I couldn't tell. So just give me a moment and... here we go." 

As the turned back towards Dean he saw something flash green in her hand before she extended it to him palm down, a drawstring pouch dangling from it. Cautious, but curious, he took the pouch and looked inside. There were another series of round pills, these green-ish where the previous set had been purple. 

"Take these in addition to the ones I already gave you. They should keep the pain down and give you more meaningful use of your bad leg for longer." She regarded him frankly and sat down in the closest chair to him, her body angled towards the door. "I can't heal you or make everything go away, but I can improve your quality of life."

"And what, exactly, do I owe you for this show of generosity?" Dean asked, crossing his arms and leaning back in the seat. "Am I selling my soul? Am I committing to a cause? locking myself into a course of action that you won't let me escape? I'm all for feeling better, but not at the cost if my life, my freedom, my judgment."

"Hmm," Kat said half to herself, leaning back and mirroring Dean's position. "Well that sure didn't take long."

"What didn't take long?" Dean asked defensively.

"You already confronted Garth, and he told you he's a spy."

Dean's eyes darted frantically around the room, judging the gaps around the door, the seals on the windows, and taking in the light fixtures.

"We're not bugged," Kat scoffed. "No one can hear anything that happens inside this apartment." For a split second he saw a flash of purple, like an invisible, transparent cage lining the inside of the apartment, but he blinked again and it was gone. "I expected Garth to tell you. I'm just surprised you asked so soon. Let me guess you threatened to turn down the job and move out to do save him, am I correct?"

Dean swallowed and hesitated before answering.

"This isn't a test. Everyone finds out eventually. Well, they do if they wind up working out. The ones who aren't a good fit, who might... betray us, tend to move on before we let things slip."

"But you don't have a problem with me knowing, immediately after you hired me? Are you saying I was a sure thing?" Dean protested.

"You already hunt, you have no papers, so you're constantly and permanently wary of the authorities and have no motivation to be on their side, and you stand to lose as much as we do if the authorities ever find out. Plus Garth vouched for you."

Dean let the new information sink in. "So Garth's been with you for a while?" 

"That's not important right now, and it's Garth's story to tell. I have an assignment for you. She pulled a file from the stack in front of her, passed it to Dean, and then produced a small envelope from and passed that over as well. "Actually two assignments." She tapped the envelope. "First, I need to get this file to West Seattle by 4 pm. Then I have a family in Fremont with either a spirit haunting or a boggart." She tapped the file and looked up at Dean. "The family are _not_ believers in the supernatural and their details are vague. From what we can tell the extra normal inhabitant is not vengeful, but even that intel is approximately 80%. You'll go in as an exterminator, and maintain the illusion for them. I need that covered tonight. Do you think you'll be able to accomplish both and make it home before the night time curfew concludes?"

Dean looked from Kat to the binder and back to Kat again. "Do you have addresses? The timing to get to West Seattle has to be right. There's too many checkpoints, too much activity to take a bus and no practical way to walk there."

I was under the impression you could make almost anything with wheels and an engine run. If you drive, isn't it possible to evade checkpoints?"  
"There are three times the normal density of cameras on Alki, and reputation has it that most of them work. Something about old laws in place to stop people from just driving around mindlessly." He shuddered. Alki was one of the neighborhoods least affected by the wars. Sure, plenty of homes and buildings had gone sliding and careening off the bluffs and into the street below taking out luxury condos and mid-rise hotels and the few scattered hold outs of old-style single-family homes, but the people with money and power—not the _authorities_ per se, but those who made their living off of supplying the authorities with their every glutinous excess, had wasted no time on rebuilding, bugger and flashier than before. 

"Don't worry, you needn't go anywhere near Alki. The address is on the back of the envelope. You'll find the destination is decidedly higher up the hill. If you drive, can you make the trip?" Kat asked again.

"If I have to go back there regularly, it's not a good idea. Cameras and guards can log tags, vehicle descriptions, even run driver identify scans. I can get in and out, but it would be risky to drive there again."

"And if I suggested I could provide different tags and papers if needed, or even suggest you take different vehicles?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean protested. "I have one vehicle—"

Kat's eyebrow flicked up.

"Okay, technically two, but one of them is an ancient, giant, classic car I inherited from my mom who may have gotten it from my dad. It's from Kansas and isn't even a vehicle type cleared to drive out here. As much as I love it and think it would be an awesome ride for hunting—plenty of trunk space to conceal an entire arsenal—if I took that out, ever, I'd have the military police, regular police, and the goddamn advisory guard on my ass in 10 seconds flat. My other vehicle is a motorcycle, which I believe you know. They're not all that common and use is strictly controlled and limited, so if I go flaunting my mobility around even with new fake tags every day, chanced are someone will notice."

"What about acquiring other vehicles?"

"You hiring me to steal cars now?"

Kat scowled at him, then smiled. "Actually no. Consider this a brainstorming session. I want to know what you think you can do, reliably with your skills and resources, and I want to know if the answer changes if we can give you a little more in the way of resources and options."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The phone rang. Even after a few months of carrying it, he still didn't think of it as _his_. The ringing snapped him out of self-reflection. The first dozen or two times Kat had called the phone had shocked him. Now it was less of a 5-alarm fire and more of a minor annoyance, Kat's little petty way of jerking him out of whatever he was doing and reminding him he worked for her.

In all fairness, Kat usually had a pretty good reason for calling him—a change of schedule, fits information for a hunt, an urgent courier job. It was just that he wasn't used to being on anyone's schedule but his own. For years it had been the one perk of his situation. He might not have had food, or money, or papers, or a consistent roof over over his head, but he'd had control over his own schedule. Now, even that was gone.

Yes, there were perks, but he wasn't entirely sure they were really benefits, not yet.

"Winchester," he said into the phone, "What can I do for you today? Need a package delivered? A special problem cleaned out of someone's house?"

"Dean, your best fake paper, what's the ID?" Kat asked her voice strained and clipped through the phone. If Dean didn't know Kat better, Dean would have sworn Kat sounded _afraid_ , panicked. Kat didn't do panic. 

Dean found himself staring at the phone, thrown at the sudden turn of events. 

"Dean, are you there? Are you listening to me?"

Kat had said she'd never ask him to so something on fake papers, her purpose for Dean to have him do the behind the scenes jobs. So what was she doing asking him about this now?

"Uh," he stammered, brain stuck out of gear, not quite following along with the track-jumping logical leaps Kat seemed to expect of him. "Dane Colt, I guess." He wracked his brain running through the details, provenance, and relative authenticity of each identity. "Yeah, Colt," he concluded, nodding to himself. "Why?"

"Is Colt, by any chance, a priest or minister or rabbi or even a seminary student?" Kat demanded.

"Yes," Dean said slowly, because this? This made no sense. And suddenly his skin was too tight and his spine was crawling.

"There's no time to explain. I need you to bring Colt's credentials and anything you need to perform an exorcism of a mid-level demon and meet me at my office in the next 30 minutes."

Dean cursed under his breath, cast a surreptitious gaze around the street where he was walking turned back towards his building. "If I push it, I can probably make it to your place in half an hour."

"No my _office_ ," Kat insisted, "and I really need you there now, but out of practicality, I’ll take you when you can get here."

A vague memory of Garth's description of a tiny storeroom in the International District sprang to mind, and Dean realized that must be what she meant. "I've never been there."

"I'll text you the address. Just get moving. We will be lucky if we can get 30 minutes, and whatever you do, don't take any less-than-legal transport. Take the bus, go through checkpoints, use your papers and don't be late... And whatever else you do, do be sure to dress the part." The call disconnected unexpectedly, the subtle click followed by the echoing silence of nothingness startling him into action. Whatever was going on, Kat’s behavior certainly was unexpected. Dean still wasn't sure what the central _point_ of her assignment was, but he took it seriously. 

His feet had carried him most of the way back to the apartment building before she had hung up the phone. Once there, he ran up the flights of stairs, going around and around and around and ignoring the pain that lanced through his body with every step. By the time he got the door open, he was winded and shaking and had to stay still for a good 30 seconds because he just couldn't _think_. When he managed to move again, he took the time, even though thought that little judgmental voice in the back of his head was telling him it was a waste of time. It wasn't, and it was exactly the sort of circumstance Kat's painstaking preparation was intended to assist. 

Dean pulled out the pouch of pills and the kettle, filling it and setting it to boil. He took as much medicine as he dared and began gathering his hunting gear as he waited for the water to boil and his tea to brew. 

He needed gear and supplies. It had been years since the last demon he'd faced, and what little he did know told him there were different types of demons—what worked for one might not work for others. So he took the time to pull out not one but two of his special, extra-secure books to be sure he had all the demon lore and exorcism rituals at his fingertips. The first book was his dad's. It was full of sigils and symbols, the Key of Solomon, everything and anything you could need to summon, bind, trap, or banish a demon. Some of the pages were dog-eared and care-worn, while others bore John's scribbles, notes, entire rituals jotted down in the margins. The second book had belonged to his mom. It was entirely handwritten and from what little he knew about it, related to some massive research project she had undertaken when Dean was little, or possibly before he was born. She'd jotted more notes in it later, when his— _nope, not going there_ ... Anyway, she'd written in the book off and on for the rest of her life. After she came back from the time she was gone, she'd never been without it. Dean had flipped through it a few times after she died, but he'd never had use for it before now. The rituals his dad had taught him had worked, even if they did leave him feeling half-dead afterwards. His mother's book was full of annotations about specific types of demons and how to protect yourself from the ritual. He wasn't sure why he would need to protect _himself_ from an exorcism, but if it could help, he was willing to try it. 

When the books were neatly stowed in the bottom of his most respectable-looking bag, he shifted everything back into place so leaving not trace or clue that there was a hiding place for someone to find. Then he gathered supplies—holy water from a church (he collected it monthly, just in case), a bible, a rosary, chalk for drawing a binding circle or any other sigil he might need, and salt, because salt tended to offer some protection when used with intent, even when used against a monster it wasn't really _designed_ to fight. 

When his bag was neatly packed and arranged, the extremely contraband items secreted away beneath its false bottom, Dean paused to look at his watch, jolted into motion when he realized 12 minutes had already passed, and started to rush out the door, only to stop when he remembered Kat's warning to "dress the part." He still didn't know what was up, why she would want him traveling publicly, under fake ID, and what was with the impossible timetable, but something deep in his gut was urging him on, spurring him to action. So even if he hadn't cared to please Kay (either as his boss or the apparent leader of the resistance), he would have run down town to help. Because something was _wrong_. It felt like his world had been shifted half a step off kilter and it was sliding further and further out of whack with every passing second.

So Dean took two and a half minutes he really didn't have and pulled out a clerical collar and slipped it into a black button-down shirt, changed to black slacks and a belt, and even switched out of his work boots to a pair of lace-up loafers he sometimes wore "undercover." He kept his leather jacket, and added a key scarf because it was cold, and the scarf gave him an air of anonymity that the collar did not, so at least he wouldn’t be drawing attention to himself the whole way downtown. Priests were quite rare. Rare, but tolerated, even by the authorities, respected by many, treated decently by all, revered by a few. It wouldn't be _bad_ if he was noticed, but then again, if he made himself stand our too much people would remember and notice him, which he definitely did not want. 

By the time he made it down to the street, 17 minutes had passed. There was no way he would aka it within the 30-minute allotment, but then again he hadn't really expected to make it in that little time, and he figured Kat knew that.

It didn't stop him from wondering why Kat had requested him, why she insisted he meet her downtown, and why she wanted him to use fake paper. 

Heeding Kat's words, he progresses towards downtown as fast as he knew how, catching an express bus—one he'd never been on before because of the regular groups of Military Police that frequented the line. Dean tried not to hold his breath when the first group came by and scanned his ID, but to his surprise the encounter was largely uneventful. The officer glanced at him and his paperwork, checked the biometric authentication, and returned the ID to Dean without asking any questions. The simplicity and lack of scrutiny sent shivers up Dean's spine. Something was _off_. 

The bus moved quickly through the city, stopping infrequently, with the passengers checked at every second stop by the resident Military Police patrol. Random spot checks had officers heading his way twice more, but the scrutiny was never more intense than to ask if he was, indeed, a minister or priest. 

The express bus moved through checkpoints and zones without delay or opposition and let Dean off about 5 blocks from his destination. The air was colder in and around downtown, with the wind rushing and rain falling faster and faster with passing moment. He stepped off the bus and set off at a jog—or as close to a jog—as he dared, once again grateful for the added agility Kat's medicine gave him. Even with that help, by the time he neared the address, he was limping and the cold and damp felt like it had settled into his bones. 

He almost missed Kat's office the storefront was so small and unassuming, but after walking past it twice, he yanked open the door and stepped inside. Kat was sitting behind a small, almost rickety desk, with an odd array of papers and apothecary ingredients spread across it. Meanwhile young-ish, dark-haired pale-skinned woman was pacing the length of the narrow, but deep store. 

A bell actually tinkled as Dean stepped inside. 

Kat and then unfamiliar woman looked up, turning as one to their sound of Dean entering.

"That was a lot longer than 30 minutes," Kat said at the same the other woman said, "This is him?" 

Dean scowled at the interloper, something about her set his teeth on edge, and that was without considering her condescending, disbelieving tone.

"I got here as quickly as I could," Dean said to Kat. "What's going on? What's _wrong_?"

"Did you bring supplies?" Kat asked, as she stood, her eyes boring into Dean.

"Yeah, yes, I assume you meant for exorcisms? Because you seemed pleased to hear my ID was a priest, and the obvious problem for a priest is a demon."

"Are you sure he can do this?" the other woman asked, tapping her food impatiently, arms crossed across her chest. 

Dean cast the impatient newcomer an askance glance and quirks an eyebrow at Kat. "Okay who the hell is she? And what the fuck is going on?"

Kat tsked, which set Dean off.

"Pardon my language, or you know what, _don't_ pardon my language. You called me up, broke your own protocols, told me to bring—" he broke off and lowered his voice, "fake paper," he added _sotto voce_ before resuming at full volume, "which you swore you'd _never_ do, and then you had me rush all the way through downtown to here, to the official location of your _legitimate_ business, risking my ass at every damn checkpoint because you said you needed me here in an impossible amount of time, so what the fuck do you want!?" Dean was breathing heavily by the end of his rant and found himself fumbling to steady himself on the counter when the inevitable wheezed and coughs came.

"Oh this is just lovely," the strange woman said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I come to you with a legitimate problem, a crisis. I risk my neck, lay it all on the line for you, and what do you call in? A sickly, know-nothing nutcase?"

"You will not ever address my operatives in so disrespectful a tone!" Kat demanded.

"Your _what_?" the strange woman demanded at the same time Dean asked incredulously, "Did you say _operative_?"

"Yes," Kat answered, looking directly at Dean before shooting a glare at the other woman. "Meg here is an informant. She wants me to trust her, but she's a high-level government operative—"

Dean found himself trying to melt into the corner, back his way out the door. 

"Who is an enemy of the authorities and came to me with a very serious situation." Kat continued, her words somehow piercing and freezing Dean in place.

"So what happened and why did you call me?" he asked, dread settling deep in his stomach, the sensation going cold.

"Garth is possessed," Kat answered.

"How? Wh— what? How is that even possible? I thought you took steps, precautions to make sure that wasn't possible." Dean was pacing his limp as close to forgotten as physically possible, the pain of hitching his stride and leaving him feeling vulnerable and undone.

"I do. I _did_! Under normal circumstances this wouldn't even be possible."

"So what? if Garth is possessed then the authorities know about you, know about us? And we're just supposed to sit back and wait for them to come and get us?"

"No that wouldn't—that's what the protections are for. If the demon was allied with the authorities, possession would not have been possible, but the demon is from another line, a different sect, and it isn't allied with the authorities."

"So they're on our side?" Dean stammered.

"How simplistic, thinking there are only two sides," the woman, demon, Meg snarked. 

Dean just glared at her. "No, I just meant that if they don't support the government or are actively opposed to the authorities, then why can’t we use that to our advantage?"

"Dean, you are right, but it is more complicated than that. The authorities would still consider an enemy demon a threat. And if the demon goes back to where it came from, they will hunt it down, make it tell them how they were opposed and that interaction could transfer Garth's knowledge to the authorities. If that happens we are all in danger. Every second that demon is in Garth's body, the danger grows."

"But, won't the authorities just command the demon to tell them what it knows or exorcize it themselves? If we did something to it, won't the authorities be mad? I'll do anything to help Garth, he's my friend and I owe him my life several times over, but I don't understand how we're not screwed no matter what I do, no matter what any of us do," Dean admitted.

Kat cocked an eyebrow again and turned to Meg expectantly. 

When Meg didn't immediately speak, Kat cleared her throat. Meg started pacing again and gave in. "The authorities do not have many vulnerabilities, and few of those they would like to admit. The authorities represent a coalition of Demons and Dark Fae royalty that together have enough power to control this realm. They are still somewhat vulnerable to both ordinary dark Fae and demons who belong to unallied philosophies or sects. Whenever one of these attacks or acts against the authorities, the authorities respond swiftly, harshly. But _this_ demon attacked by threatening to expose the ruse surrounding power and food distribution, to the entire human population. Those who don't know about magic," Meg explained.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked looking between the two women. "What do you mean?"

"Tell him," Kat commanded.

"As you know, the official story is that we get our electric power from hydroelectricity. The Grand Cooley Dam and others east of here. That is true only the infrastructure for transporting and securing the power and for maintaining the plant just could not be done with so few people or over so great a distance. Everything is augmented with magic, magic in place of electricity, magic to store it, contain it, transfer it around, and magic to maintain the infrastructure. If the secret gets out, the populace starts asking questions that the authorities can't truthfully answer. 

"Most would ignore the incongruities. The reason magic has persisted relatively undetected for so long is because so many are willing to be blind or ignorant to anything that disrupts their preciously constructed, precarious world view. _Most_ bit not all," Meg said, meaningful weight in her voice.

"And I take it it's the few that do believe or question that pose a problem? " Dean asked, crossing his arms. He still wasn't sure he entirely believed in this demons and magic running the world thing and everything the Newcomer was saying about it. Then again, his best fund's life was apparently hanging in the balance, so Dean was willing do anything, try anything to save Garth's life.

"A few dissenters who know and believe the truth can easily be swayed to oppose the regime. Worse, if they spread the word about demons, chances are the Angels will get word, get _stronger_. And that's the last thing any of is need," she concluded.

"I don't get why the demons who hate the authorities aren't on our side," Dean complained.

"Because the world is a lot more complex and nuanced than the enemy of the enemy is my friend," Meg added condescendingly. "Because a human girl broke into the hydroelectric storage plant, the guards missed the demon that hitched a ride on the girl in all the commotion. The girl probably never realized she was possessed because hey there rendered her unconscious so she wouldn't see where she was being taken or glean anything else useful. When they got her back to Seattle for questioning, they tried to do it on the down low, so they took her to the Chancellor’s home. The plan backfired because the enemy demon was hitching a ride and jumped into the next available human. That happened to be the carpenter."

"You mean Garth," Dean repeated, "you're saying this strange, enemy, ride-hitching demon is possessing Garth." Meg's comment about the "Chancellor's home", filtered through the fog, and Dean had a sinking realization that Garth hadn't just been working in a secure position _for_ high-ranking government officials, he had been working in the home of arguably _the_ most dangerous and powerful of them all.

"Yes," Meg was answering as Dean's mind wandered, tugging him back the here and now. "And in this case it presents a great opportunity."

"How?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"The Chancellor does not trust enemy demons, and he will not tolerate an unknown demon in the same physical space as the Prince. Most of his staff are demons, and while they are great in a fight against humans, they're mostly not very talented at taking out other demons. In fact, most demons cannot exorcize other demons without harming, killing, or banishing themselves. Angels could take out an enemy demon, but they were all enemies of the government and effectively everyone who isn't an angel. The other bloodlines don't present much leverage, but what the Chancellor does _not_ want to risk exposing himself, the Prince, or any of his staff to this kind of threat, at least not right away. So we have an ever-shrinking span of time within which if _we_ can provide someone, an expert to perform an exorcism, we might just come out of this alive."

"That's why I called you, Dean," Kat interjected. "You're the only person who might have a chance. If we wait the Chancellor will call in his own people. They will exorcize and interrogate, and they will find out the truth. And then we, and many, many more, will all die."

"What do you want me to do?" Dean asked, resigned. His heart leapt in his throat every time he thought of purposely interacting with the government, and the mention of the Chancellor' house, sent chills up and down his spine, his lungs constricting despite the medication he'd taken, but as terrified and full of dread as he was, he was equally desperate, compelled to help Garth. If Garth died, if Garth stayed possessed, if he was disappeared when his role as a spy was discovered, it wouldn't matter whether Dean was captured and punished too, his life would be effectively over. Without Garth, he was all alone, isolated, cut off, utterly solitary on all the universe. He couldn't let that happen.

"I've been able to get you an emergency clearance using Dane Colt's ID and profile. Under the circumstances, the emergency clearance is actually standard." Kat approached Dean, holding out a Tyvek folder.

He took it, unsurprised to find it was full of identity-related documents, including a transit pass, sector passport, credit chip, and the aforementioned emergency clearance—a sort of visa printed on a plastic card complete with holograms and chips. The only things not there were the standard identity documents Dean already had—birth certificate, social insurance card, and driver's license (complete with photo, fingerprint, and biometrics).

"You want me to go to... to the Chancellor's house, and exorcize a demon that's currently possessing Garth that was possessing some innocent girl, and if I don't we're all fucked and of course I might be fucked anyway because I'm going with my fake papers into the personal home of the secret leader of government," Dean confirmed.

"He's got it," Meg murmured from her corner of the cramped storefront.

Dean cast a glance over his shoulder and then looked back at Kat. 

"And if you can, try to find an exorcism that will keep the demon away for a long time," Kat said.

"I'm not sure if exorcisms have time limits. My dad—" he starred, then broke off, swallowing to get around the sudden lump in his throat. "My dad always implied it had a lot more to do with the demon and their, ah, connections." He fumbled with the credentials and rubbed the back of his neck. "So..."

"These are the directions," Kat pressed a piece of paper into his hands. "Five stops on the bus and the car will pick you up. They won't let anyone approach or know the location, so their cars are the only way to get there."

"And they'll let me in?" Dean asked, disbelieving. 

Kat closed the distance between them and squeezed his hands, reassuring, concerned. "Your fake paper seems more real than a lot of real identities. If anyone's got a chance, you do. And we have to try."

"I could run," Dean thought somewhat disingenuously. But really, he knew better. There was no where on Earth he could go and out run the government. He'd just have to be careful. 

"But you won't," Kat answered, knowingly. She held out her hand for Dean to shake, and Dean grasped it firmly. He felt a surge of _something_ flow through him, followed by a static frisson of energy, like the purple sparks he saw when Kat played apothecary, only directed into him. He didn't think she'd _done_ anything to him, but the sensation, the reminder, made him feel strong in a way he hadn't before. He met her eyes and understanding passed between them. This was his fight now as much as hers or Garth's or anyone else's. 

Maybe it always had been.

Slowly, he let go of Kat's hand, his arm dropping to his side. "If this works, how do I get out?" he asked. He was still looking at Kat, but the words were directed at Meg.

"That's where I come in. I convince them you're valuable out here working for Kat, and make sure they take you back to the pickup point. I'll even help to make sure the tails all lose you.

Dean nodded and turned to leave. Delay would only bring more risk.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It was almost unreal. After years of dodging and avoiding any hint of a governmental patrol or checkpoint, Dean found himself walking up to uniformed officers and inviting them to inspect his ID. The first two interactions were unremarkable to the point of being nonevents and Dean found himself almost ashamed at how terrifying he'd built them up to be in his mind. He knew that was just luck (and really good fake paper), but he couldn't quite shake the sense of surreality. The entire trip was taking on a dreamlike quality. To think that some people got to move around like this all the time.

The benign appearance of the authorities slipped a bit at his third interaction. The bus route, one he'd never had any occasion (or opportunity) to take seeing as it began in downtown and wended its way through the government core before veering off into parts unknown, the broad, open, post-industrial expanse east of the old freeway that seemed to be mostly government-controlled lands with various unspecified purposes, interspersed with pockets of pure lawlessness comprising both hardened criminals of the most dangerous sort and those who truly wanted or needed to be alone. Either type of occupant, Dean had neither the desire nor reason (nor need) to venture there. 

The bus pulled up to its third stop since his boarding, the first stop since the bus had ventured out into the wildlands, and Dean rose to follow the suit-clad army of government workers exiting at that stop. When he was halfway up the aisle to the front door, one of the military police officers on board turned and glanced at him. It felt like the guy was giving him a funny look, but then again that could have been decades of paranoia talking, so Dean just smiled and went on his way. He reached the front of the bus, and was preparing to disembark when he found an arm (and attached baton) physically barring his way."

"Halt!" the bus driver altered.

Dean snapped to attention, hands flying up in surrender on pure reflex. "Whoa, what's the matter?" he asked, swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat. "Sir?" he added, for good measure as he felt the military police officers shift behind him, one of them pressing the butt of a rifle to the small of Dean's back.

"This is a restricted stop," the bus driver stated as one of the Military Police officers stepped around Dean to cover him from the front. 

"I have an appointment," Dean managed, his throat so dry it was difficult to form the words. He started to move his hands towards his satchel to pull the sheaf of credentials from its back pocket, but the clearly telegraphed move earned him a hard jab on the back by the unseen officer's rifle and the barrel of the other gun shifted to point squarely at his forehead.

"I said, halt!" the bus driver ordered again. "Use of this stop is classified and restricted to specific personnel, attempts to infiltrate under false pretenses are punishble by death!"  
 _Yeah_ , Dean thought bitterly, _that's the reason I've spent most of my life terrified of you._ Aloud he said, "I understand, if I could, sir, I am trying to show you my pa—Identification documents and emergency clearance."

The bus driver glared at him, but the military police officer whose rifle a was aimed at Dean's head, lowered the barrel slightly and nodded at Dean's satchel.

He took that as permission to retrieve his papers. Slowly, making sure the officers could see his hands at all times, he lifted the flap on the messenger bag and unzipped the first pocket, leaving the main compartment and its somewhat... sensitive materials closed and concealed. He pulled out his ID, work authorization, and the emergency clearance and handed them to the bus driver.

For a few tense heartbeats the guards didn't move and to one spoke. It took every ounce of self-control Dean had to stay calm, stay put, and not run. Every instinct he had was telling him to run. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and his skin was crawling. Bile rose up into his throat, but he stood firm, even took a few breaths to calm himself before straightening up to project confidence. His papers might be fake, but the rest of it was real, and he was on a deadline.

The bus driver came to the emergency clearance and seemed to freeze immediately. While he looked over the document, the soldiers continued to train their rifles on Dean, giving him nowhere to turn. The bus driver handed the credential and Dean's ID to one of the military police, specifically to the officer who had lowered his gun slightly after Dean had proffered the documents.

"Stand down," the officer said after a few moments.

Dean immediately felt the rifle butt leave his back as more rustling noises sounded behind him. 

"I am sorry sir, for the confusion," the officer was saying as he reached out a hand with the ID and clearance. 

Dean took the documents quickly as the bus driver finally lowered his arm and stepped aside. 

"We really are quite sorry for the delay," the officer added as Dean took the documents from him. "Please allow one of us to explain your delay and see a you to your vehicle."

"If it's all the same to you, I would prefer just to get out there. This is a time-sensitive situation," he added, keeping his voice quiet and low.

"Of course," the officer in front of him said, stepping aside, and with that, the situation changed again with the bus driver and officers treating him almost reverently. The flip-flopping, Rollercoaster of emotions was enough to send Dean mentally reeling, but he was too focused on his goal—hopefully saving Garth and protecting them all from annihilation, to indulge himself. Instead he smiled at the officers and driver and stepped off the bus.

The air felt colder here and more damp, which was strange because they were now a good distance from the water with a thick wind break of hills and tall buildings. He would have thought the little protected valley would be warmer and dryer, especially with the overcast sky and now wind, but the air was filled with a chill that struck him to the none and seemed to just sit there, draining any and all passersby of their warmth. The air smelled of ozone too... ozone and something intangible he associated with "magic," only this scent was _different_ somehow, more robust, more acrid, yet less fulfilling in some way. He couldn't really explain how the not-scent made him feel that way, especially since he couldn't really _smell_ it and the attributes he assigned to it in his mind were not scents or really anything that could be perceived with the senses. 

He wrapped his jacket tighter around himself to fight off the chill, hoisted his satchel higher on his shoulder, and looked around. There, about 30 paces away, we're two uniformed men and a car... an actual _limousine_ waiting. He approached cautiously. "I'm Dale Colt, Reverend Dale Colt," he repeated. "I have an appointment," he added as he very cautiously produced his ID and emergency clearance from where they were still clutched in his hand. 

Unlike the twitchy officers on the bus, these two didn't react or make any agreessive moves towards him. Instead, the driver, or at least he assumed it was the driver since the guy was standing next to the driver's side door, took the credentials from Dean, inspected them, then held them up to some sort of handheld device, nodded and passed them back to Dean.

Dean had no idea what the handheld device was, but he was pleasantly surprised that his not-actually-legitimate ID hadn't set off any alarm bells. What was it Kat had said? It was a remarkably good fake? 

"Thank you for getting here so quickly, Reverend Colt," the driver said, "We are relieved that Ms. Bastet was able to locate you and brief you." 

It took Dean a few seconds to realize that "Ms. Bastet" was probably Kat (or possibly Meg) and another few seconds to marvel that Kat (because his gut told him it was Kat, not Meg to whom they were referring) shared a surname with the Egyptian cat goddess. "I just hope I can help," he responded, covering his surprise 

He turned toward the rear door, where the other uniformed man was waiting. The man did not open the door, but instead held out his hand. "I must inspect your bag."

Dean gave only a split-second's hesitation, knowing there was enough contraband in that bag (without counting the well-hidden _really_ illegal stuff like his parents' journals. There had to be some way around that... contraband or not, they must be expecting it. After all, how could anyone be expected to perform an exorcism with no supplies? They or _someone_ in the government's chain of command must have known he would _have_ to arrive with some contraband on hand... unless they expected to provide him with resources and this was... _No_ , if that had been the case, Kat, or possibly Meg, who was apparently disloyal to the government and stood a lot to lose, would have told him. (Unless this was a setup, Meg wasn't who she pretended to be, and this was an elevate trap, in which case, they were already fucked, and there really wasn't anything he could do. 

Not out here in the isolated little valley parking lot of doom. 

So Dean passed his satchel to the guard and breathed. 

"Hey, there are class 2 items in here!" her remarked, holding up a bottle of holy water.   
Dean glanced over at the driver, who was literally rolling his eyes. "Yes, of _course_ there are," he started. "Mr. Colt is a priest, the driver added.

"You do know why they called me in, don't you?" Dean asked.

The guard seemed to process the information for a moment, and then it all clicked in, and Dean watched as realization dawned in the man's eye, and he made a flailing "oh" face. 

"You're just supposed to check for obvious weapons, guns, daggers, that kind of thing," the driver prompted.

"O—of course," the guard stammered, glancing briefly in the bag again before passing it back to Dean. "my apologies. There's nothing in there. Please, time is short," he added, opening the rear door.

"Thanks," Dean said with a nod at both driver and guard, before sliding inside.

The trip was uneventful and silent. Dean was uneasy enough with the situation to be disinclined to ask questions (even though there was a big part of him that wanted nothing more than to fill the awkward silence with wise-ass chatter and cutting questions). But he had a role to play, a persona to maintain, and the weight of many lives and livelihoods suddenly thrust on his shoulders. He had no idea how big Kat's network was, if it was big or small or somewhere in between, if there were other fragments and factions of resistance, if Kat's was part of them, or if... well if Kat was it. For all he knew she could be the coordinator, everything standing between humanity and whatever the authorities would aka of the Earth if they had unfettered, unchallenged access to implementing their goals. Dean didn't couldn't know. But what he did know was at the very least he, Garth, and Kat would all be disappeared or dead (or worse) if he fucked up. 

Part of him wondered why Kat didn't go herself. If he hadn't been here would she have just let Garth die? Just let their secrets be spilled? But the more he thought the more he realized that he just didn't know enough to speculate. Kat was some kind of ... magic for lack of a better term. She had abilities, dabbled (or more) in crafts that were forbidden. Similar crafts to what his mother had used and employed before her death. Kat easily should have been illegal, just like him. But somehow she maintained a cover, a relationship with the administration, and apparently ran a spy network. Even if that were a ruse, a lie, the thing was, she helped people. Helped him, helped Garth. Gave them jobs and resources and tools that made their lives better and would have otherwise been unattainable. But for all that, Dean had no idea if she could exorcize a demon. Even if blowing her clover and likely damming herself and others (and destroying her ability to help) were not a concern, Dean didn't know if she could actually go and exorcize a demon, let alone do so in a way that would make sure it stayed gone for a good, long time. After all she had needed him, and specifically asked him, interviewed him about his hunting abilities and exorcism skills in particular. While at the time he had wondered if her probing questions were some strange attempt to determine things about Dean, he recognized it was also legitimately an evaluation of his skills skill which she (and Garth and he) now needed. Still the situation unsettled him. What would Kat have done if she hadn't found him? Was there someone else who could have taken his place, or would Garth have been doomed?

And then there was the matter of what he would find when he got there, wherever _there_ was. The information Meg had provided about the demon didn't exactly convey what _type_ of demon it was or provide any other information that would help Dean to narrow down what ritual would be best. He found his fingers itching to consult the books secreted away beneath his bag's false bottom, but he dared not open his satchel to get them.

It was one thing for the authorities to turn a blind eye to holy water, salt, a crucifix, and a copy of the Bible. He was a "priest" on his way to an exorcism. But that was a far cry from his books, and the last thing he wanted to do was come this far only for his impatience to get them all killed. 

He just had to have faith it would work out. He'd be able to look at the books when he got there, because surely the guards wouldn't want to stay that close to a demon in the process of getting kicked out. Instinct and intuition, quick thinking and luck would lead him to it.

So, Dean pushed down the desire to consult his books along with every other warring emotion and cleared his mind.

There was nothing to see. The limo's windows were tinted to total opacity. No one could see in or out, and the barrier between the front, driver's section and the passenger compartment was equally black and equally opaque. So he had no clue where she was or where they were taking him. The trip seemed to be taking a while, but based on the variable speeds and innumerable twists and turns, that could just have as easily been the result of the driver going in circles to throw Dean (or any potential tails) off as it could have been due to distance. He had no idea if they were still in the city or one of the surrounding protected areas, or somewhere else entirely. 

Without the opportunity to review the books hidden in the bottom of his bag, he used the silence and isolation to meditate and reflect, try to recall every lesson both his parents had given him about demons. To his transport companions it probably looked like he was praying. Anything that bolstered the ruse was fine by Dean.

By the time the limo finished a long, slow climb and pulled to a stop, Dean had drawn up a mental map and check list for bow to go about determining what kind of demon he was dealing with and how best to dispose of it. Now came the hard part, seeing if anything in his plan would survive the first engagement.

"We have arrived, Father Colt," the guard said, the title chosen in apparent deference to Dean's cover identity's status as a priest.

Dean unbuckled himself from the seat's harness and almost turned to ask the guard what came next, when the driver opened the door for him.

Dean nodded at the guards and said, "Thank you," to the driver.

As he emerged from the vehicle, he realized they were in some sort of garage. It was deep and wide and the ceiling was very, very tall, but the space was indoors nonetheless, and Dean could see a veritable fleet of vehicles scattered around the cavernous space.

It made sense, of course, welcoming him into an enclosed space, somewhere he wouldn't be able to get too much perspective on where they were. 

Lights overhead clicked on with a dull hiss as they moved, the light source too distant overhead to make out with any clarity. Dean got the sense that the garage was both very tall and underground, creating the extra space between the floor and ceiling. 

The guard wordlessly motioned for Dean to follow and set off on a path that led them across the garage past several different vehicles, including a fleet of limos, towards a distant wall. A staircase set ran along the wall to a height roughly three stories from the ceiling. The steps felt strange, almost crackling and vibrating with energy as Dean walked up them. He had a sudden certainty that the next step would _sting_ , hurt, burn. Part of him seemed to recognize what was happening, what the stairs _were_ beyond stairs, but he didn't know how or precisely what that was. He just pushed the feeling down and moved on, steady and calm, refusing to flinch or give the guard any reason to suspect him... of or for anything.

The step didn't hurt. It actually felt less tingly than all the steps before it, and the sensation of normalcy continued as he moved in up. Maybe he'd been imagining it? 

He couldn't help letting out a tiny puff of breath in relief, though, and the same part of him that was relieved didn't believe for a second that he'd imagined any of it. He'd passed a test, somehow, although he wasn't sure how. The guard didn't acknowledge it had been a test, but his pace up the remaining steps hastened, and Dean found himself once again grateful for the drugs Kat had given them. He was pretty sure the ridiculously large dose of pills and tea plus an unhealthy dose of adrenaline were the only reasons he was able to keep up with the guard on these stairs.

The stairs opened into a broad, long landing, that stretched the remaining length of this wall and turned the corner up ahead to follow the adjacent wall. Doors dotted its length every 10 meters or so. Dean followed the guard to the third Door, which the guard opened and led Dean inside. Here the lights turned on as they passed, glowing from frosted glass wall sconces with a reddish tint, yet flickering almost like flames. The hallway took them up another half-flight of stairs and down again where the hall morphed into a sort of broad landing. There was a railing on the far side, and the feeling that suggested open space with a high ceiling, but the guard led Dean off to the left and down another hall. 

The corridors seemed to change rapid fire after that, with Dean taking left, left, second right, right, left, and then up a couple more steps where the guard suddenly stopped and Dean almost tripped on him, his nose stopping millimeters from the guard's back. Dean took two steps back in haste, and managed to stand with his hands crossed behind his back and managed to look vaguely composed by the time the guard turned to look at him.

"This is our quarantine unit. The infected individual is behind this door along with the others who have been exposed to the... demon." The word sat awkwardly in the guard's voice as he spoke. "I cannot enter, and we will keep all others out until such time as the Chancellor authorizes our admission. I will warn you that will likely only occur if you succeed and exorcize the demon, or if the Chancellor decides to put you out of your misery. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Dean said with a nod.

The guard paused and the little flicker of movement in his fingers suggested to Dean a furtive reflex to bless himself. "Good luck," he said, giving Dean a curt nod, and with a flourish, a spark of green and purple, and the press of a button and the door swooshed open and Dean found himself stepping inside.

The door slid closed behind him with a particularly fast swish of movement and a clang of finality. It was like the _door_ wanted Dean to know it wouldn't open absent an act of god... (or devil). It didn't _feel_ final, though. No matter what the guard had said, Dean _knew_ he could get out if he needed to. Not hoped, not bet, not guessed or wished or prayed or pleaded, he knew with a kind of certainty he had rarely encountered in his life. That knowledge was the one tiny, positive, ray of hope since he'd answered his phone. 

Pushing the sudden comfort aside, and dismissing the door from mind, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. The room, was distinctly different from the rest of the building's architecture, at least what little he'd seen, and for all the space was dressed up as a room, it was really more of a vault. The light was dim and red-tinged from light filtering through the illusion of a skylight in the domed ceiling some 20 feet above. There was no skylight there, Dean could tell, or maybe he _knew_ , but for all it looked like it was a skylight, the light was wrong, the spectrum off from that of sunlight, and the possibility completely negated by the thick clouds pale winter sun outside. He supposed it was possible they could have traveled somewhere the sky was sunny, the latitude was very different, and it wasn't winter, but they hadn't traveled that long and nothing in the trip had indicated it was anything other than a drive. And from what Dean understood, the possession had occurred the same place Garth was working, which was the Chancellor's home, which was also where they now we're and decidedly supposed to be somewhere in the vicinity of Seattle.

So Dean was certain the skylight was fake, although he couldn't actually see the source of its light. 

The vault was cast in shadow, the walls and parts of the ceiling draped in blood-red silk brocade, heavy and foreboding. Behind the brocade, he could make out bubble-textured metal—salt-coated iron, probably backed with steel for strength and spelled to keep the salt from turning the metal to rust. The floor was salt-coated iron as well as was the ceiling. And as his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized every inch of every surface was covered in the intricate patterns and whorls of innumerable sigils. Some were marks from the Key of Solomon, like the giant circular construct around and somehow behind or in the fake skylight that filled him with a sick sense of dread—he always felt repelled by such marks (even while making them) and could never quite shake the irrational fear that if he stepped into one, he couldn't get out. (He _could_ get out, he knew that, and it was one of the "skills" his father had drilled into him with repeated practice. He didn't know anyone else except maybe... His mind shied away. His father never seemed to have any fear or difficulty with the things despite the practice he put Dean through, and his mom, well, Dean just didn't know. 

His eyes continued on their path around the room taking in more and more symbols—some in the language of the elves, others he only recognized from his mother's book, scribbled in her own handwriting. Still others were like those he had seen his father draw once, and only once, and his mind told him were in Enochian and had some thing to do with angels, even if he didn't know how he knew that. 

As his eyes circled round the room and came back to the door that closed behind him, he noticed at last the room's other occupants. He should have noticed them sooner, but outside the bubble of light underneath the fake skylight, the room was quite shadowy. But sure enough, there on opposite ends of the far arc of wall staying as far from each other as they could get and still being far from the door, we're two figures. To his right was a slim, but muscular, brunette woman dressed in a simple blue jumpsuit. She was turned away from him and the room's other figure, but he'd seen enough of those jumpsuits from time to time to know that on her left chest and shoulder would be a placket bearing an array of numbers and symbols, which together constituted her ID number and assignment. It was the standard uniform for those who worked for the government in various sorts of secure facilities from sanitation to power to shipping and processing. They used to show up more frequently, but over the past decade or so, the government had begun pushing more and more of its _less glamorous_ operations outside the city proper as it solidified its power base and brought in more and more top-ranking officials and skilled and professional workers. The woman herself looked like she'd been dragged through the mud or maybe in some physical fight. Her uniform was splotched and torn around one shoulder, and her somewhat curly hair seemed to have partly slipped from a braid into a nest of mats and tangles. He could see one hand and a sliver of her face, and her skin was scratched, her cheek bruised, knuckles bloody. Whoever she was, she was trying her damnedest to _not_ look in the direction of the room's other occupant, even though Dean could tell by her body language and the line of her spine that turning her back on that person was terrifying her.

He thought he knew what that meant, and he'd expected it, but it didn't stop him from wishing, hoping, he was wrong.

On the other side of the room stood a figure both incredibly familiar and wholly alien. The slight frame and long fingers, light hair, and slight air of partial messiness, was everything Dean associated with Garth. Only the body language and stance was all wrong—the figure was standing ramrod straight and seemed to exude vanity and haughty aloofness in equal measure. The figure also seemed to exude cold, fear, and pain, welding them effortlessly as if the negative emotions were wrapped around him like a cloak.

Dean had known Garth for most of his life. He'd seen Garth in every situation and in none of those situation had Garth ever looked like this. His back was turned as if he were steadfastly ignoring everyone and everything around him. Kat had said... Meg had said... it was the reason they'd sent Dean, but somehow he'd still deluded himself into believing that maybe Garth was okay, maybe they were just all wrong. Maybe Garth was just mixed up in all the mess and commotion and wasn't really ...

But, _no_ , Dean knew with absolute certainty that when Garth turned around, his eyes would be pure, solid black.

"Garth," he called out, voice rising and falling to obscurity over the course of that one word. 

Garth didn't turn around, he didn't twitch or give any indication he'd heard Dean. Instead the woman spoke.

"That won't work, you know, " she said. "It's like he's waiting for something, some clue or magic word. He just stopped talking and turned toward the wall and froze up. Hasn't moved in an hour."

Dean spared the woman a glance, reached into his bag, and pulled out the holy water. "Do me a favor and take a swig of this, will you?" he said, holding out the bottle.

The woman raised an eyebrow, but hesitantly held out her hand.

"Just trust me on this," Dean pleaded.

The woman glared at him, but unscrewed the cap and poured a sip into her mouth, not actually touching the bottle to her lips. She swallowed, recapped the bottle, and passed it back to Dean. "Tastes like stale shitty plastic, satisfied?" 

"Thanks," Dean said and let out a little sigh of relief. "At least I know you're not a demon."

"That was holy water?" she asked. 

Dean nodded. Of course her not being a demon meant that Kat and Meg's Intel was probably right and the demon was in Garth... which would correspond with the frozen cold shoulder treatment Garth was giving him. Putting on a cocky air full of bravado he didn't really feel and turned back to Garth, or the thing wearing Garth. "So that means you're the demon, huh? You got a name? Are you Azazel? Beelzebub? Izual?" he paused and looked for a reaction, but Garth still hadn't moved. "Or maybe you have a boring, mundane name, like Bob or Jeff, or Garth?" 

The demon wearing Garth still didn't respond, but Dean thought he saw a half twitch when he said Garth's name. 

"Well then, I guess we'll just get started." Dean stopped a good four meters from Garth, knowing from experience just how fast demons could move when they wanted to. He wanted to be close enough to potentially lure Garth into a devil's trap (which, okay, would not be easy since the demon in Garth was clearly giving the devil's trap built into the fake skylight a wide berth and hadn't gotten trapped yet). He contemplated his options, taking in the room's bare floors and slightly ovoid shape. He could... yes, if he was very careful about the dimensions he could just make it work. 

So, Dean set down his bag, opened it, pulled out the big stick of sidewalk chalk he kept on hand for sigil duty, and pulled the Key of Solomon from the main compartment of his bag. It was normally something he'd keep hidden, but like the Holy Water, it was something that fit with his role and the circumstances. He flipped open the book to one dog-eared page, reconsidered, and flipped page by page until he found the version of the sigil he wanted. Not as robust as the intricate trap built into the room's domed ceiling, but significantly more robust than the one he'd used in the past, if he worked the room's dimensions in his favor, he could fill most of the floor with an exaggerated, oversized, trap. It would stretch widthwise across the room's slightly shorter diameter almost filling the space wall to wall while leaving a gap on the larger diameter at both the door and the back of the room where Garth—or the thing wearing Garth—now stood. As Dean worked, he kept the open bottle of holy water in his left hand at all times, ready to throw on or at the demon if it moved. By filling in the most important details first and adding the embellishments that made the trap stronger only after the basic structure of the trap was in place, he made it harder for the demon to try to stop him, and soon left the monster with nowhere to go.

The demon seemed obviously distracted, whether it was because Garth was putting up a fight (Dean hoped it was the case) or the demon was actually preoccupied or distracted with something that meant being further trapped inside the trap on which he was already caught did not weigh heavily on his list of concerns (also a distinct possibility, and very, very disturbing) Dean didn't know. All he knew that what little attention the demon paid, it seemed annoyed, but not particularly concerned. 

The woman, whose name Dean still didn't know, didn't ask any questions or speak at all, but she seemed attuned to what he was doing, moving out of the way as he sketched out additional symbols in chalk on the bare floor. 

The idea was to block off as much of the space as they could without completely occupying it. The demon, not wanting to get trapped more than it already was, would avoid stepping or moving _into_ the seal meaning that they—Dean and the woman—could be relatively safe within it. If the demon changed its mind and moved into the trap, well there was still a nice little pocket of space outside the door by the seal. As Dean put the finishing touches on the trap, he looked over at the room's other non-demon occupant.

"Hi, sorry for not introducing myself sooner, I'm De— Dane Colt, but I also answer to Dean. In case you hadn't guessed, I'm here to deal with the little demon problem." He pointed at his clerical collar, the book, and the newly drawn symbol for emphasis. Satisfied with his work, he hauled himself up to one knee to survey the results, keeping his bad leg out to the side and careful not to smudge any of the chalk. The sudden change of position sent sharp pains stabbing through his knee, hip, and back. He couldn't quite hide the wince and grimace, but he shoved the pain down and out of the way of his concentration. He hated showing weakness in front of clients, or victims, or monsters... but right now he didn't have much of a choice. The room had no furniture and he wasn't about to draw on the floor while stooping. 

The demon hadn't turned around though, and a quick glance at the woman showed no hint of disdain or pity. 

"You got a name?" he asked, bluntly.

"Tabitha," she answered at last, skewering him with her gaze. "So, dealing with the demon, does that mean killing that guy?" she gestured at Garth.

"Not if there's any way I can help it," Dean answered pushing as much certainty and truth into his voice as he could manage. 

"Good," Tabitha said. "Because for all I was just a passenger at the time, Garth seems like a really nice guy. He was trying to help me, when one of the palace guards aimed a shotgun at me. The demon must have seen it as an invitation though. That's when it jumped out of me and into him." She shuddered. Then it grabbed the damn shotgun and blasted three guards. 

"Did—did Garth get shot?" Dean asked. He didn't see any blood or evidence of injury? but then again, the damn demon hadn't turned around, so he couldn't tell for sure. 

"Wha— no," she said shaking her head emphatically. "At least I don't think so. I—it was in me, possessing me. They brought me here. I think they bound it. It was fighting them. I passed out, woke up here, they were taking it somewhere, I think maybe here. We passed Garth and another worker, Tim? Tom?, I don't know his name. They were working on something. And stepped in the hallway because of the commotion. He was, Garth was really worried about me. Started to get into an argument with one of the guard's that they'd better not hurt me and that he knew someone, a priest who could help. The guard called him by name, that's why I remember it. I was fighting back. I opened my mouth, and it just flowed out of me..." She broke off her head down, eyes downcast and carefully averted.

"That's when it took him," Dean supplied.

Tabitha nodded, burying her head in the palm of her hand, elbow resting on her other palm. "He—it, I think it was the demon, not Garth, got this really strange look on its face and said 'oh,' like it learned something. That's when I passed out again or they stunned me." She shrugged. "Woke up in here."

"I—I'm sorry, that sounds terrible. You must have been terrified, I'm sorry you got mixed up in all this." There. He hoped that sounded comforting enough, while also being true.

Tabitha's head shot up from where it was resting on hee palm. "Whoah, whoa, whoa, don't go handling me with delicate care. I may not have expected, this," she gestured between the room's three occupants. "But I did go looking for trouble. I was looking for the power transfer station, to prove that their power distribution network doesn't work, not on a scientific basis. I got my proof that 'magic' exists, just not quite the way I was expecting to."

"Do they know that?" Dean asked, dread creeping in the corners of his awareness, his voice pitched low, quiet. He cast a sideways glance at her, not knowing why she was giving herself away. She wasn't possessed. Was she testing him? Had he already given himself away? They were facing a large enough threat just having the demon in the room. He wasn't sure if he could do this if he had to juggle live hand grenades at the same time.

"No," Tabitha answered.

"Did you see anything else?" he asked. And there, that would do. He hadn't given anything away. He could play things either way (or any of a number of ways). But her answer would be telling.

She paused for a moment, head cocked to the side, regarding him, studying. He couldn't tell what she was looking for, but something seemed to solidify her resolve or help her make up her mind. "Yes," she said with a little nod.

Dean nodded back, neither asking nor offering any other information. Satisfied they'd averted or deferred that little disaster for now, he returned his attention to the demon. He was just going to have to trust her. There was no other way he could consult the notebooks he needed to study, without giving himself away. Even if he was pretty sure he could recite two different exorcisms from memory, he had a feeling that wouldn't help. There was something dangerous and elusive about this demon that would take more than luck and words to dispatch it. 

"Did it tell you anything useful? Anything that might help me identify it?"

Silence reigned for a minute or so as Dean carefully laid out the contents of his bag, leaning over it as he worked to conceal the secret compartment of the bag from Tabitha as he worked.

Eventually she spoke. "The demon is very old, and very resentful. I am not sure if it has a name. If it did, it might have forgotten it long ago. It is opposed to those in charge, seeking to overthrow and rule itself, but it is looking for any destruction it can find. It felt... cold, afraid. It isn't truly immortal, so it does have fear. Beyond that, I don't know. I was unconscious most of the time I was possessed, I couldn't tell you anything else. Just don't let him possess me again, and I will be very grateful. Maybe they'll even let us go."

Dean nodded, thinking. He began flipping through the books spread around him on the floor. He could almost remember two different exorcism rituals. They were on the tip of his tongue, but he dare not speak a word until he was certain the tidal was the right one. The first ritual, the one he could vaguely remember his _mom_ using, had two phases and used the first phase to exorcize the demon from the host and the second to banish the demon to hell. The disadvantage was the obvious risk of fighting a naked demon: no host involved, but the demon was literal ether, formless and insubstantial, able to strike, without presenting itself as a strikeable target. 

The other exorcism he knew exorcised the demon in one step and sent it back to hell. He doubted somewhat that he would find any rituals that would _kill_ a demon outright, but the one he did know was terribly impermanent. The way his dad had put it was great for getting a demon out of a host and out of your hair, but the first opportunity the demon got to slip out of hell through a crack, portal or other opening, it would be back, and sometimes demons held grudges. So if you weren't careful the demon might come looking for you. It might take a few months or years, but eventually a determined demon would find its way back to you. And it might be when you expected it the least. 

Dean personally didn't like the ritual because it was long-ish and sometimes it could take more than one recitation for a stubborn and resilient demon to leave the host. Plus, while the words hindered the demon somewhat, it was still capable of exerting its influence on the host and its environment. It could be enough time for a demon to cause a stroke or break their own host's neck, leaving them to die the moment the demon vacated their body. Some demons had also broken traps or even killed or injured bystanders or their exorcists, although there was _less_ chance of that here since the materials this holding cell were made out of were particularly demon-resistant. Still... maybe there was something better.

"What're you doing?" Tabitha asked after a while. 

Dean wasn't sure how much time had passed, since he was relatively comfortable, seated in the trap with his bad leg out to the side, careful not to mess the symbols and also completely engrossed in the journal entries and passages from the Key of Solomon he was reading. He prided himself in remaining calm and was relieved he hadn't jumped when Tabitha spoke. "Looking up exorcisms," he replied.

"Don't you already know how to do that? Seeing as how someone called you here to deal with the demon problem?" Tabitha challenged.

Inwardly he cringed, because he didn't exactly want the demon to hear his answer and on the off chance Tabitha was indeed a plant or Government spy, he didn't want to give her any ammunition against _him_. His mind raced off down the most probable lines of questioning that could follow and realized he _absolutely_ did not want to have those questions asked or answered around a demon, or any place a government recording device could be hiding. 

"I know several exorcism rituals," Dean said after careful consideration, hoping his statement wouldn't come across as falsehood lest the demon latch onto it and start mocking or taunting him. "Unfortunately, of the two most common rituals, one is too dangerous to us and the other doesn't send the demon deep enough into hell—which is a big problem if he decides to hold a grudge. So I'm trying to find a better option, and that means consulting a lot of reference materials." He shrugged. "Better a few more minutes up front than our untimely deaths and a demon still here." 

"Oh."

Considering, he went on and told Tabitha in delicate terms to watch her mouth because the Demon was listening. To his surprise, the demon still didn't speak up after that, which told him Garth must be pitting up one hell of a fight. All the more reason to do this _right_ —Garth and Kat and untold others were counting on him. He wasn't going to fuck this up.

The problem, Dean was finding, was that there were too many exorcisms. Many psalms, various modifications and variations and tweaks over the centuries, and there were no less than a dozen distinct rituals in his dad's journal alone. Some were blissfully short. But, as John Winchester's patient scrawl pointed out, some of the shorter rituals—hell all of the rituals in one circumstance or another—needed to be repeated again and again before they worked. 

Frustrated, Dean turned back to the Key of Solomon. It suggested some additional tricks and sigil and, for lack of a better term, spells, that could help trap and control demons, but nothing on how to send them to a particular circle of hell or make sure they didn't ever come back. Seeing no other choice, he pulled out Mary's journal, caressed the spine reverently, and opened it to the second bookmark, taking in all the commentary and suggestions Mary had provided in her cramped, tiny print with a smattering of cursive. Who had she written thus for? He wondered. Had his mom taken notes for herself? Had she hoped she might overcome the disease, had she planned to be around longer, or had she just wanted to take as many of them with her as she could? 

Or did her journal have another purpose? Did she write it, leave it for Dean? And if so, why? What did Mary want with demons, and why was so much of her journal dedicated to dealing with them? He'd read this all before, when he was first alone—on his own—he'd devoured every word of both journals, even reading them in risky public places, because it was a way for him to connect with his parents. He would probably never know. But in times of doubt the possibility gave him comfort. 

Time was ticking by too quickly. He turned the pages faster and faster, taking it all in, searching, hunting for deeper meaning, a clue, a source, but the longer it took the more nervous he became, his heart rate rising, blood rushing in his ears, sweat pickling in beads along his hairline. There had to be something, there had to be...

"Heh, heh, heh," a booming laugh echoed through the room.

Dean froze. It sounded almost like Garth, or how Garth would sound if he was a megalomaniacal asshole who derived great pleasure from the pain and torment of others. Dean knew exactly what it was, and he realized at the same moment exactly what he had done wrong. He was _damn_ lucky he was sitting inside the devil's trap, but even that was not without risk. Sitting, with his bad leg out, getting stuff from holding the position for so long, precious books and necessary supplied strewn about, if the Demon decided he wanted revenge or torment (or just to remove a possible threat) more than it cared about being trapped inside a slightly smaller cell, Dean was screwed. He couldn't move as fast as a demon and he'd never make it out of the trap in time. 

"You know," the demon said, turning to face Dean and Tabitha, "the way your friend Garth here talks you up, I was actually a little apprehensive. He seemed to think you'd figure out some way in here, and I'd be exorcized," he paused to smack his hands together, illustrating, "like that. And I admit when you showed up here and started drawing almost from memory more than your books, I admit, I was a little worried." He laughed again, the sound grating. 

"You know him, the host, I mean?" Tabitha asked, in an alarmed whisper.

Dean just nodded and motioned her back, toward the crescent of clear space on the other side of the room. Tabitha's footsteps told him she was complying, carrying his bag with her, the irregular rhythm of her steps reassuring him she was being careful to avoid scuffing the sigils. 

"But then you went and acted the fool. Your fear, frustration, panic, it's so strong, I can almost taste it! You were right to fear me, to want to send me far away. Garth's mind is like an open book to me. I know what he is, what you are, spies, and I cannot wait to find out whatever secrets you have. I already know you're not a priest, in fact, you're not even legally in Seattle or anywhere on planet Earth."

So he was going to pontificate. Well, if there were recording devices around, Dean was well and truly humped, as were they all, but, if Meg had really been trying to help them, like she said, maybe that was taken care of, if it was even something to worry about to begin with. So let the demon talk, as long as he was talking, he wasn't attacking, and that gave Dean time to steady himself, calm his heart rate, make himself less vulnerable to possession, while carefully gathering up his belongings. As the Demon droned on, taunting, Dean managed to get almost everything he had in the circle with him, neatly stacked and organized, so he could stand and carry it all to the safe zone on the other side of the trap. He knew the shortest ritual by heart and could say it with confidence and conviction. He might have to say it a few times, but if he just calmed down and focused, it would get the job done. He'd just have to hope wherever in hell it sent this demon was far enough. He cast one last look at his mother's journal, and froze again. 

It had flipped to a seemingly random page, 2/3 of the way to the back, in a section Dean hadn't even glances at. _Grab the demon and pull_, it said, the word "pull" underlined three times. _Hold your focus, visualize what you want to do... tear to kill, throw to exile from this dimension._ The note was scribbled in Mary's handwriting, and there were annotations and sketches around it. Some were crammed in, others faded. It looked like she'd taken notes over a long period of time, coming back and adding things, updating her notes.

He'd read the journal cover to cover, and he didn't recall seeing this before. Why didn't he? Had it missed it? But, no, each time he looked at the page, he saw more. Another sketch, smoke coming from a person's mouth. The word "sulfur" circled. It was as if the page was revealing itself to him slowly, piece by piece, as if by magic.

_Magic._ Like demons. Like the purple sparks and crackles of Kat's medicine that worked better than any drugs or treatments Dean had tried in his life. Like the blue-green glow that he remembered coming from his mom's hands sometimes. That kind of magic. He wondered what it meant. Was his mother saying there was a way to actually kill a demon? But what did she mean by "grab" it? All of the sketches just showed a figure with their hand outstretched. He didn't see any sort of contact with the demon or its host. He was halfway to his feet ready to dismiss the strange page as a curiosity to be studied later, when one more, final line of text seemed to materialize from the ether, "Even dormant, should work for Dean." _What?!_

His heart skyrocketed in surprise, and he realized a second too late, what he'd done.

In his moment of shock, the demon had darted into the trap, the markings impervious to its footsteps, and it had latched onto Dean, using Garth's hand to grab Dean by the shirt and haul him up from his half-standing position until he was hoisted above the Garth's frail, slight figure, looking down. His toes were barely brushing the floor, and the pressure the Demon's hand was putting on his chest combined with the angle was making it very difficult to breathe. 

"No," Dean croaked out, forcing more air into his lungs. "Garth, fight him, please."

"You fool. You could not master your fear. You should know better than to leave such an attractive opening for a Demon to pour through. Your friend has been fun, but I imagine possessing you will be even more entertaining. I shall enjoy feeling your disgust when I use your hands to snap little Garth's neck."

The Demon laughed again, and Dean just said, "No." His voice was faint, almost inaudible, especially against the blood rushing in his ears as sparks started to light around the corners of his oxygen-deprived vision. He closed his eyes, steadied himself, let out a long breath, and blinked his eyes open. 

He could feel it coming, the staticky, roiling, sparking mass of black "smoke" that came pouring out of Garth's mouth towards Dean. 

He tried to keep his mouth shut, but the smoke just took a beeline for his nostrils. He didn't want, didn't want, couldn't—

And just as suddenly as the Demon's advance began, it stopped, the black tendrils hanging in the air in front of Dean retreating from his nose, as if repelled by an unseen force. 

He blinked, glanced down at the demon, trying to figure out what was going on, but Garth's face held no clues. If anything he, or rather the semi-dispossessed demon, looked a little perplexed. Before Dean could suck in another breath, the demon was _pushing_ again, forcing itself into Dean. This time he felt it flow _up_ his nostrils, electric, yet numbing, and oh so very wrong, but it hadn't even started to flow back into his throat, before he was gagging, and the demon was once again, forcibly repelled from his body. The surge and backlash actually knocked Garth over, and Dean dropped like a rock to the floor, panting over the sudden, unexpected release, and struggling to force air into his abused lungs. 

_What the hell had just happened?_ He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so wonderment aside, as soon as he could reclaim enough oxygen to get some semblance of control over his muscles, he scooped up the books—which he'd dropped when the demon had picked him up—and half crab-walked backwards out of the sigil.

"What the fuck _are_ you? " the demon asked, panting.

"Not the asshat stuck in the middle of a devil's trap," Dean shot back from the relative safety of the crescent of clear space near the door, carefully levering himself to his feet and graciously accepting Tabitha's assistance when offered. Once upon a time, Dean had let foolish pride get in the way, but that was before the years had not so much worn him down, but showed him what an idiot he was being.

The demon wearing Garth looked down at his feet, then up at the second devil's trap built into the ceiling, then down at Dean's feet. The demon's expression was hard to read, a sure sign thst Garth was fighting him, but if Dean had to choose, head say the Demon was expressing something along the spectrum of surprise and confusion. "How are you... How are you out there?" it wondered aloud.

"Because I made it, and I'm not a body-snatching parasite," Dean responded. He cast a sideways glance at Tabitha. "Thanks," he added and turned back to the demon, only to think better of it. "Whatever it says, whatever it knows, don't listen."

"Why?" Tabitha asked, "Doesn't it know things... it was in my mind, in my memories."

"That's just it. Demons tell the truth. Demons lie. Sometimes they lie by telling the truth. They get in your head, and they know your fears, your shames, embarrassments, weak points. So all you know when they open their mouths is that whatever they say, it's designed to help them and hurt you. It could be true, it could be a lie, or a truth told in a way that gives you the wrong idea. It doesn't matter, just don't listen. They only say what will hurt you most."

Tabitha blinked, nodded. "Okay."

Dean nodded back and cleared his mind, focusing on the words he had to say, the intent behind them.

_"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica._

_"Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi tibi facias libertate servire, te rogamus, audi nos."_

He got to the end of the first recitation and started on the second, when the demon began its taunts.

First, the demon's ire was directed at Tabitha. Taunt after taunt about how she couldn't conduct a simple investigation, about what a coward and a fraud she was, how her discover about the use of magic in transporting and storing power was going to damn her family, how her baby niece would be disappeared or maybe just murdered. The insults got more crude and cutting as the exorcism went on. Dean saw Tabitha flinch once, but then just as suddenly relax, and actually turn away from the demon, not looking hurt, just shutting it out. Instead she gathered herself into a half lotus on the floor and just breathed, her gaze seeming to focus on a distant part of the wall

Dean thought when this was all over, if they both made it, he might ask her for some tips, because he'd _never_ been able to brush off the sting of demonic taunts with such poise.

Next the demon started in on Garth. On what a coward and a traitor he was, about how he had broken and would have given Dean up the second the authorities came back in the room, or worse, maybe he hadn't broken, but the demon would just make him say the words, play the part.

It was all pretty standard stuff part for the course. the demon was getting rattled. Every few words, a little puff of black demon "smoke" would slip out of Garth's mouth and the Demon's control would slip a little further. Dean hated it, because the taunts were probably fucking with _Garth's_ head something fierce. Dean finally tired of listening to it, paused the ritual, and spoke to Garth, ignoring the demon. "I don't care if what he said is true. You're strong. You'd do what you can, hold out as long as you could. Whatever happened, I'd never hold it against you. Because you'd last as long as anyone could." He slipped right back into the ritual without missing a beat, and the words had the desired effect. The demon stopped his taunts, apparently bored now that he wasn't getting a rise out of Garth anymore.

Still, the exorcism hadn't progressed much farther than smoking, so Dean upped the ante, and added in a couple of verses that were left out of the short ritual, changing instead to one of the long rituals. 

_"Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te. Cessa decipere humanas creaturas, eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare. Vade, Satana, inventor et magisteromnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis,"_ he began. 

A bigger puff of smoke flowed out of Garth's mouth, and Dean felt a little surge of victory, his concentration tipping towards anticipation. 

It was then that an expression of pure shock and realization cam over the demon. "I know what you are," he said, ominously in a voice that definitely wasn't Garth's.

It wasn't the words, or even the tone so much as the deep sense of certainty the demon projected that made Dean stutter in his recitation. " _hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu Dei..._ " he continued, closing over the repetition. He was looking at the demon now and it felt as if the demon was staring back at him, looking into him, speaking _truth_.

"I know what you are," the demon repeated, speaking loud enough to make himself head over Dean's chanting. "They told us you don't exist. But where there is one, there must be another, always two. A balance, darkness and light. Bound together, forever separate, the aspects of the other housed within the opposite, a perfect mirror reflection."

Dean kept chanting, but as the demon grew confident in his conviction about whatever _it_ was, the ritual seemed to have less effect. 

"I know what you _are_!" the demon shouted this time. "Unity of the four bloodlines, but born of this earth, you walk upon it with a human's birthright. That which cannot be banished by force."

The words resonated in Dean, but they didn't really _mean_ anything, so he pushed them aside and kept going, pushing his own certainty and truth into the ritual.

"I know about your brother, Sam—"

Dean tripped on his words and tried to forge onwards, repeating the same line twice before he realized where he was. 

"I know about your father, John—"

Dean tripped again.

"I know you know your father's dead because you felt him when he left this plain of existence. But you don't know how," the demon taunted. "You don't know it was your _brother_ , though. You don't know it was your brother who killed him."

A chill ran down Dean's spine. His lips were moving, but he wasn't hearing the words.

"He was tricked, but the deed was done. He was the only one who could have banished your father and he did it. He was tricked, but he bears the blame. Your father is gone, but your brother still lives."

"No," Dean whispered, stumbling in the exorcism again.

The demon just grinned, twisting Garth's face into something manic and depraved. "Your brother lives, but he abandoned you! Even now he moves against you, without knowing who or what you are." The demon was flat out smug now.

"No," Dean whispered, all pretense of ritual forgotten.

"Oh, yes. I had planned to work against the Chancellor, wreak havoc, but no, this is so much more fun. I have the secret, the identity of the individual for whom he has been searching these many years, and you are right here, under his nose the entire time. That kind of secret is worth something. It's _powerful_. Sharing it with the Chancellor will put him in my debt... a far greater blow than I had planned to strike. You came here, Dean Winchester, planning to banish me and save your friends, your precious resistance. Instead you have sealed their doo—"

The demon broke off, sputtering and suddenly wet. The unexpected development shook Dean from the spiral of betrayal and disbelief his mind was running through. He looked over, surprised to see Tabitha. For a moment he had forgotten she was in the room. She stood there with her hand outstretched, Dean's bottle of holy water now empty.

"Shut up!" she said to the demon. "We get it. You're big, powerful, yadda yadda, bite me. Go sell your shtick to someone who will actually buy it. You forget, I _know_ how terrified you are of the Chancellor and the Prince. Now you've just made sure we have to get rid of you." She glanced over at Dean. "What? You told me not to listen. I'm ignoring everything he said and taking it with a truckload of salt."

The reference to salt made Dean laugh. "You know, salt actually works against some supernaturals."

"I'll keep that in mind. Now let's get rid of this asshole before we're all fucked."

Dean opened his mouth to say he didn't know how, the demon was resisting and even if the exorcism worked, the demon would just come right back, but his mind flashed to his mom's note. And this time, along with the suddenly appearing images, he got something else, a picture in his mind's eye—a memory, maybe, maybe something else—his mother standing in a bedroom, hand outstretched, eyes dark, almost black, blue green sparks seeming to crackle in the air around her, and black smoke pouring from a man with yellow eyes. Pouring, pouring, until she closed her fist and it was _gone_. Had she.... had she _killed_ a demon?

"Okay," he murmured. He started saying the exorcism again, mostly to settle his mind. He focused on the rhythm, the intent, visualized what it was doing to the demon, imagined he could follow the words back to the Demon's source, separate it from Ga—From the host, and then he reached out his hand, and _yanked_. Not with his hand, but with his mind, with the part of himself that recognized what the demon was. 

The demon smiled, then his smile fell, and he opened his mouth to protest, but instead of words, the demon flowed out, a near endless stream of thick black smoke, crackling with purple energy. 

Dean could feel it, the toll it took. It was the same feeling of pain and exhaustion he got from the exorcisms he'd performed in the past, only more acute. It ached, his lungs burned, and he wanted to stop, only he knew he couldn't. He started to cry out in pain and frustration, only for the cloud of smoke to suddenly slip free. It hovered there, like a visible, intangible ball of evil, just hovering, trapped, and powerless.

Dean closed his fist.

Three things happened in quick succession. The smoke disappeared, Garth dropped to the floor like a marionette with his strings cut, and a concussive wave emanated from the space the demon had occupied, knocking Dean and Tabitha on their asses.

It took a moment for Dean to get his bearings, between the pain of the exorcism and the force of the blast the wind was knocked out of him and his vision had gone sort of hazy and tinted, everything taking on a strange silver cast. When he could draw another breath, he looked in Tabitha's general direction to find her already on her knees, staring back at him.

"Are you all right?" he panted. 

For a moment she was silent, but then her eyes flashed with recognition and understanding. "Oh my god," she murmured, "I think I know what you are."

He wanted to ask. Wanted to know what everyone but him seemed to know about him, but at that moment, there was a sharp knock, and the door to the vault suddenly opened.


	6. Chapter 6 - Interlude with the Crown Prince

Chapter 6

**Interlude with the Crown Prince**

"My lord?" 

The guard's voice came just as Sam was about to, well, come. Infuriated at the guard's gall to interrupt the Crown Prince in the middle of a tryst, so close to climax no less, Sam's eyes shifted to full black and his spikes emerged all along his spine. He didn't stop thrusting into Ruby, though, and she, for one, had always preferred Sam when he transformed, loved it when he lost control. 

Aroused, Ruby wrapped her thighs tighter around Sam's hips and dug her heels into his scales, urging him on. 

Sam responded by thrusting faster and deeper and letting her excitement wash over him, bringing them both to climax. He started to pull out, but Ruby made an annoyed grunt and bit him hard on the lip, drawing blood. That pulled Sam right back into the moment. He bit back, giving Ruby an identical cut, and they descended into a passionate tangle of limbs and teeth for another minute or so. Finally, starting to get soft, he pulled out, and Ruby let him. He reached up to wipe the blood from his mouth, the bit itself already long-healed, and looked down at Ruby with a slightly maniacal grin.

She was kicking him. And glancing over his shoulder. Why was she kicking him? Oh, the guard with incredibly poor timing and crass manners, right. Rage flooding through Sam again he whirled on one knee and turned to greet their interloper, not caring for modesty and certainly not bothering to make himself look more _human_ or less menacing. 

"Can't you knock?!" he asked stalking toward the guard with a sneer. 

The guard just stood taller inhaled, and spoke. "My lord, I apologize for the interruption of your private time with," the guard's eyes tracked to the bed slowly before snapping back to attention, "the Duchess." He sounded almost surprised at Sam's bed partner. 

Which, yes, Sam did have many bed partners, willing, unwilling, human, fae, demon, slaves, volunteers, men, women, and everything else, but this was the Royal Bed Chamber. Who else would he bring into his inner sanctum, _really_? He was starting to think the Chancellor's screening process would need another overhaul.

"Then why did you interrupt me?" he demanded, stalking closer, face shifting into a sneer. He could feel the spikes on his arms emerge, and if this petulant, presumptuous, moron didn't start talking soon, his wings were going to come out, then he'd fully transform, and the guard's head would be permanently separated from his body.

Seeming to finally grasp the precarious nature of his current situation and the threat of impending death, the guard answered, looking positively contrite. "I am sorry my lord, but it is a matter of utmost importance. There has been an... anomaly at the palace. Something to do with the enemy demon that was captured and brought there earlier today."

That drew Sam up short. He looked at the guard closely and realized it was the same one who had briefed him earlier on the "situation."

"I thought you told me you had handled it," he said, hand rising without a conscious impulse, fingers starting to close into a fist.

The guard was raised up on his toes, hoisted by an unseen force, and immediately began gagging, struggling to breathe, and clutching at his throat.

"My lord, we did have it handled. We obtained a priest to perform an exorcism and the exorcism appears to have been a complete success." He gagged again, glancing meaningfully at Sam, but Sam did not release him. "As the demon was leaving however, the meters registered a magical anomaly and the tracking program failed."

Sam abruptly lowered his hand, causing the guard to fall back to the ground, overbalance, and crumple to a heap on the ground. Sam glared down at him. "What do you mean the tracking program failed?"

The guard did not answer right away. Instead he scrambled to his feet and smoothed his robes before speaking, hand going to his throat once again as if to confirm the vise grip was really gone. "My lord, when we attempted to determine which realm the demon went to at the completion of the exorcism, the tracking program returned no results. Our top technicians enquired further and ultimately ran a diagnostic."

The sudden sinking feeling in Sam's stomach told him with absolute certainty what the diagnostic had found. 

The guard's words just confirmed it. "The diagnostic indicated the program had not failed, rather it could not return a result because the demon had ceased to be. The program suggests the exorcism _killed_ the enemy demon."

Sam clenched his fists again and the entire room trembled. His wings pickled against his skin, burning, until he gave in and let them free, 8 meters of ebony feathers and deep purple scales stretched out behind him, flaring open, wingtip to wingtip. He managed to stop at the wings though, and didn't slip into a full transformation. "There's something else you're not telling me." His voice was rough, resonant, and the guard trembled in its wake.

"At the same moment as the exorcism, the monitors registered an unknown magical signature."

"Unknown."

"Yes, my lord," the guard confirmed with a trembling nod. "We have never seen anything like it. It certainly does not belong to any known fae, demons, angels, or other magical beings recorded in this realm." The guard paused then seemed to think better of it. "The Chancellor has already ordered a scan of the priest, the two former hosts, and everyone else within the vicinity of the Palace," he added as if trying to convey that this really wasn't a matter with which the Crown Prince need to concern himself... which was of course, patently false or he wouldn't have interrupted Sam in flagrante. 

"Take me there," Sam demanded. When the guard did not immediately act, he repeated, "Take me there, now!" Only the second statement came out as a rage-filled scream, backed with a good portion of Sam's power. The room rattled again, and one of the black glass wall sconces shattered. 

Behind him, Sam heard a little huff that reminded him Ruby was still there. She was probably enjoying the hell out of seeing his wings, and it was that much more offensive that he was otherwise occupied and not available to indulge in having her stroke his feathers. The sconce repaired itself as suddenly as it had shattered, and Sam let his attention fall back on the guard.

"My lord," the guard said, physically flinching away from Sam. "Might I suggest, ah, some clothes?"

Irked at the guard's demeanor, Sam unfurled his wings to their full breadth, knocking a vase off the top of a distant chest of drawers, and bellowed, "Out!" He pointed in the direction of the suite's main door. 

Chastened, the guard bowed, and turned to leave.

As he was walking away, Sam added, "Send word the moment the scan is completed and have transport secured for me."

"Yes, my Lord," the guard said as he turned and offered a full bow. He resumed his egress from the suite, but remained facing Sam and partially bowed. 

"And send someone who actually ranks high enough to be graced with my presence to deliver the message. Don't come yourself," Sam added. 

"Yes, my lord," the guard replied again as he backed into the main door, turned, and fled. 

When the door finally closed, Sam stood there for a moment, wings outstretched, seething with anger. How _dare_ that guard! He knew that wasn't the real reason he was angry, and a part of him admitted he wasn't angry at all, but _afraid_... Afraid of what a demon's apparent death could mean. Afraid of who the unknown power signature could be. Afraid that his one true vulnerability could finally have revealed itself, and just when his uncle, the Chancellor, was finally satisfied with his grasp over the human governments of the realm that he was willing to let Sam publicly declare his throne and end the war against their magical brethren. But the Crown Prince did not know fear and he certainly did not show it. So anger was the answer. 

A sudden tug and flood of heat deep in his belly pulled Sam from his dark musings. Instantly hard, he turned to find Ruby smiling at him devilishly, eyes pitch black, their opalescent sheen reflecting Sam's mostly transformed image back at him. The delicate Ming dynasty vase he had knocked off the chest was hovering about a foot from the marble floor, held there by Ruby's telekinesis. She was wearing her blonde skin today. Of the two host bodies she maintained, the blonde was the more delicate, but also the more likely to use her myriad mental powers. The brunette was much tougher and more physically violent, preferring to use her supernatural strength and speed and healing abilities. The brunette was actually Sam's favorite—with her he wouldn't hesitate to fully transform, while she actually got off on how much harm he could inflict on her body. But that didn't mean he would ever turn down Ruby in her blonde form, especially not when she was using her mental powers to heighten his arousal. 

He watched as the vase rose, righted, and gently lowered onto the chest, returned to its original home as if nothing had happened. 

"Aren't you going to come back to bed, my lord?" Ruby asked, batting her eyelids at Sam in faked coyness. She reached out with her mind again, and tugged at Sam, her mental caress, pressing into his prostate. 

Sam stalked over to the bed, gripped Ruby by the elbows and turned her over, throwing her into the center of the bed where she landed on her back. "I think we need more practice for when you conceive my heir," he declared, as he kicked apart her legs and buried his fully transformed member in her in one long thrust. Ruby's human skin stretched and protested the intrusion of his significantly more than human sized girth and length, but Ruby herself writhed and relished in the pain. 

"Is that all you've got?" she demanded.

Sam just glared at her, captured both her wrists in his left hand, and pinned them above her head, wings settling over them like a protective cocoon, blocking most of the light and tinting what little made it through with a decidedly purple hue. He thrust into her hard and unforgiving, setting a pace that would probably have killed a human. Despite its robust constriction and significant size, the custom-made bed groaned, creaked, and bucked, the combined force of their passion and magic. 

Blood trickled down Ruby's arms in crimson rivulets. Sam hadn't retracted his arm spikes, which were repeatedly slashing into Ruby's arms with each thrust, causing them to bleed before they healed. 

His nostrils flared as the scent of fresh demon blood hit the air. With his free hand, he struck with his forearm spikes, and slit open Ruby's throat. He bent immediately, pressing lips and tongue to the torn flesh and began to drink, giving in to the heady passion that sharing blood raised in him. 

Ruby was moaning and gasping in pleasure beneath him, as much as her ruined throat would allow. As a demon she needed neither air nor blood to survive, and derived almost as much pleasure from sharing blood as Sam did. 

When he'd drunk his fill, his mouth and chin red with dripping blood, he leaned back, and slowed his thrusts, letting the wounds heal as he basked in the power her blood had given him. He had drunk so much, almost too much. Not because it put Ruby in any danger, but because like this he was so powerful, it was hard to control, almost too hard. If he unleashed his full potential, it would tear through the earth with the power of a sizeable thermonuclear war head. 

As if sensing his dilemma, Ruby arched up, then lifted her head, and bit into his neck with all the fervor of a vampire, raking her nails down his back, along the edge of his scales, drawing blood there even as she drank deeply from the bite in his neck. 

It had the desired effect. Sam let out a gasp, and resumed his punishing thrusts into her. All it took was one mental nudge at his prostate, and he was filling her up, spilling into her. Satisfied, spent, at last. 

She kept drinking until she had bled off enough power that he could safely relax without worrying about destroying anything and flopped back against the bed with a little bounce. "Sounds like you're going to have to leave me wanting more," she observed, trailing one carefully manicured finger down his lips, capturing the book there, and pressing her finger to her own mouth suckling off every drop. 

"It does sound that way," he agreed, regretfully. Slowly he pulled out of her, a truly ridiculous flood of come following in his wake. "Shame we can't stay here and indulge ourselves properly. I'd like to _practice_ a few more times. I didn't even get to listen to you scream."

Ruby smiled, blood on her teeth making the sweet expression all the more alarming to someone with more normal proclivities. "Not to fear. Soon enough you'll be properly on the throne, this realm bowing at your feet. Soon, we'll conceive your heir for real. Now, you go make yourself look dreadfully dull and _human_ ," she said, spitting out the last word, as if it had a particularly unpleasant flavor. She continued, "So you can figure out who or what has the nerve to threaten your power and interrupt your love making and dispose of them." She stretched out, her limbs long and languorous, skin perfectly smooth and unblemished. "While you're out, I'll slip into someone a little more, brunette," she added, talking about her other host like a human might talk about a negligée. "And when you get back, we can practice properly, with you in your true form and we can stay together for hours afterwards, letting no one disturb us."

Sam's face flushed purple, eyes flicking to pure black, as lust surged in him. Oh, oh yes. What Ruby was promising was well worth the wait. "Perhaps it is time we did more than just _practice_ ," he replied. 

This time it was Ruby's turn to flush, turning a bright pink that earned her another kiss, that lasted until the blood was cleaned from both their mouths and chins. When Sam finally broke the kiss, Ruby smiled at him looking almost innocent. "Whatever you decide, my lord, I shall be ready." 

Sam squeezed her hand in goodbye and rose, pulling his form back into himself as her moved away from the bed. By the time he reached the ensuite bathroom to the left of the entrance, he appeared fully human again, no visual indication to hint at the monster that lay beneath.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Dean blinked against the sudden change in light and realized, belatedly the faux skylight on the vault's domed ceiling was no longer giving off light. That glow had ceased, whether with the departure— _death_ —of the demon or with the opening of the door. His vision had still been whited, or rather silvered, out and even as Dean looked up to the now-open door, he was blinking rapidly to try to clear his vision.

"Father Colt?" the fuzzy figure said, expectantly. 

Dean didn't recognize the voice, so it wasn't anyone he had encountered before, unless it was the driver, who hadn't spoken, but Dean didn't think so. Whoever this was, they felt different. 

Blinking one more time and fixing what he hoped was a friendly but serious near-smile on his face, Dean shoved himself to his feet. There was a split second where the spike of pain in his bad leg and sudden weakness of his knee giving out made him absolutely certain he was going to wind up back on his ass, grimacing in pain, and making the authorities, very, very suspicious, but he held onto something somewhere between bravado and faith and willed himself to gain his balance on his feet. To his surprise, it worked. The pain was still there (and a total bitch too), but he breathed, and the pain subsided to a dull roar as his vision cleared enough to tell what was going on.

The man standing before him was definitely not anyone he had encountered before. He was young, perhaps in his mid 20s with floppy, professionally coiffed hair and a smile that seemed so genuine it had to be fake. His skin was light, but gently tanned, and his hands were well-manicured with neat, trim nails that suggested he never performed any manual labor. Most telling was his suit—expensive seemed too cheap and inadequate a phrase—custom tailored and distinctive in a dark blue, just a tad lighter than midnight, with a faint seen and subtle matte striping pattern. His ivory cuffs bore genuine cufflinks, and around his neck was a very official-looking lanyard complete with embossed, holographic placard, that Dean had only seen in fuzzy detail on a couple of news broadcasts. Whoever this guy was, he was important, and probably someone terrifying. 

For some reason, despite the uncertainty and shock and painful revelations of the past hour, never mind the actual _blast_ that had knocked him off his feet, or the reality he was standing in a protected vault in the center of the Chancellor's private mansion in some undisclosed location, Dean felt nothing but calm. 

Belatedly he remembered the man had asked a question. "Yes, that's me, I'm Dane Colt," managed over the vague ringing in her ears.

"What can you tell me?" he wondered to aloud.

Of course just because his injuries were induced by a person with a shadowy presence didn't mean that he was forgotten.

"I was sent to check out you, make sure everything is all right," the young sandy-haired man admitted.

Catching on, Dean looked toward the center of the trap where Garth's unconscious form lay. "I am afraid our demon friend was somewhat... explosive when he finally departed," Dean admitted at last. "He did finally move on, but not without making a mess. 

The sand-haired man responded by reassuring Dean and looking somewhat skeptically at Tabitha. " As long as you are certain he is gone... We will need to debrief you, of course," he glanced around the room. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Please don't do anything different on my account," Tabitha murmured. Her speaking seemed to attract the attention the of the sandy-haired man.

"Ah, ma'am, do you understand what happened?" the devious newcomer asked, inserting himself into the conversation.

Still reeling from the sudden change of events, his vision not yet 100%, Dean took advantage of the brief pause created by Tabitha's uncertainty (or common sense) and ran with it. 

"I'm afraid the departing demon left his former hosts with no memory of what occurred. It's not particularly uncommon," he added, "but it is very frustrating. My dear Tabitha here," he added putting just enough condescension into his tone to—hopefully—get the point across without going so far as to violently pissing her off, "has no recollection of what happened between running through her daily routine in, Spokane, was it?"

Tabitha's eyes flared wide open for just a second, before she nodded. 

"Yes," Dean continued, "she has no recollection between that and coming to, so to speak, in this room." He glanced over at Garth, who lay crumpled in a heap at the center of the devil's trap but was breathing. "I expect it will likely be a similar story with this gentleman. The demon possessing him would neither tell us the host's name nor his own. I'm afraid the host was completely suppressed." Dean gave the man what he hoped was a sincere, if a little grim, smile, and fought the urge to rush to Garth. He could see Garth's chest rise and fall, the movement regular, steady, if a little slow. He took comfort in it, reassured himself that Garth wasn't dead at least. They just had to hang on a little longer and he could get them out of here... all of them, Tabitha too, because what she knew, and what she said she'd figured out about Dean—

He simply could not leave her at the mercy of the authorities. 

"Well then," the man said, "our sensors show the demonic presence is gone, otherwise the door to this cell would not have opened. If you will follow me, we can get the debriefing underway." He backed up, and straightened, giving Dean and Tabitha room to follow him out.

Dean helped Tabitha to her feet, then turned to the man and said, "If I may, sir," gesturing at Garth as he spoke. 

"We can send—" the man began, but Dean pushed on.

"It is part of my duties, truly. I need to ensure I have not injured him." It came out half-stammered, but Dean's concern was genuine, so he hoped the statement would be convincing. 

The man hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "If you cannot rouse him, I will send for someone to retrieve him." A coldness in the way he said it suggested to Dean it would be a very bad thing indeed if Garth were left to whomever or whatever would _retrieve him_.

Dean didn't voice that, of course, he just made a gesture somewhere between a nod and a bow, and said, "Thank you, sir," before turning back to Garth. It pained him to turn his back on the man. His skin crawled, a pickling sensation like thousands of tiny mice stabbing him up and down his back. He could _feel_ the man's attention on him, even as Tabitha tried to offer a distraction mumbling something about "was she really in Seattle" and "how much time had passed" while accompanied by a rustling sound that suggested she was trying to squirrel away Dean's supplies so as to conceal the really badly contraband stuff. He was pretty sure there was no chance his journals would be discovered, because every second that ticked by, he could feel the man's eyes boring into the back of his skull, as if looking through him, trying to see what made him tick.

When Dean reached Garth, he was faced with another dilemma. Even on good days, Dean wasn't really nimble or limber when it came to getting down on the floor. And Garth was, well, laid out like an image to a crucifixion, on the floor. Dean could stoop enough, but if he tried to get down on the floor, he was just going to set off alarm bells with mister "boring holes in the back of your skull." He settled for bending at the waist, leaning his right hand on his partially bent right knee, and stretching his bad leg out behind him for balance. He was doing a pretty commendable job of willing himself not to feel the pain, but he didn't know how long that would last. With his left hand, and very, very careful not to overbalance, Dean reached out, and pressed his fingers to Garth's neck. He could feel the pulse thrumming there, pushing against his fingers. He started to call out Garth's name, but realized, air halfway to vocalizing the "G" that he hadn't really established why he would know Garth's name. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to suggest he _didn't_ know it. It made sense for the role he was playing, but it complicated things. "Sir," he said instead, almost completely swallowing the "G" before it left his lips. "Come on," he patted Garth's face, "Can you hear me?"

Nothing happened.

He moved his left hand, so it was gripping Garth's shoulder, and leaned forward and shook it. "Come on, wake up." Nothing. He shook Garth's shoulder again. "Come on," he said aloud, them barely more than a whisper, "Garth, hear me. You gotta wake up now buddy." Dean stared down on Garth's face, searching, hoping for some sign that the demon—that Dean—hadn't done irreparable damage. His hope burned bright, almost a living thing inside him, fighting to get out, until he convinced himself he could see Garth stirring. 

Only, no, Garth really was stirring, or at least responding in some way. His eyes were moving behind his eyelids, his brow furrowed, his left hand clenched and released, his knee twitched, and then his eyelids were fluttering, blinking open in the dim light to stare up at Dean's face, searching. For a moment it was like looking into a void. Garth was awake, and his eyes were open. He was conscious, but not present. But just as Dean began to despair, Garth emerged from beneath, surfacing as the light in his eyes brightened. 

"Thank goodness," Dean said loudly, cringing at the tacky falseness of his words. _Really Dean? You went with that?_ the voice in the back of his mind chided. But well, shit, he was supposed to be a priest, and performing for the authorities, who he now believed were all actually demons or at least unscrupulous magic users, was a little different than performing for his usual audience. 

Garth was scowling at him, like maybe he thought _Dean_ was possessed. 

"Just follow my lead," Dean mouthed, staring intently at Garth until he saw the little nod that showed he understood. "You don't remember anything from the moment you were possessed," Dean whispered as he made a show of helping Garth to his feet. In reality, Garth was helping him as much as he was helping Garth, but luckily his body was blocking them from the government representative's view. Aloud he said, "Are you all right sir? Do you remember anything?"

"No, I was... Where am I?" Garth asked, the genuine confusion in his voice selling the performance. He was staring perplexed at the doorway, eyes going comically wide. 

Dean turned back to see what had Garth So shocked, but the only thing there was the well-dressed, sandy-haired man. Dean looked at him more closely squinted, cocked his head to the side. Maybe the guy looked familiar? Television really wasn't what it had once been. It certainly wasn't like the hundreds of channels he'd enjoyed as a little kid. There was still news and state-controlled entertainment... but Dean and Garth didn't exactly have a TV. And despite the _know thy enemy stuff_ his dad had spouted, Dean had never really taken a shine to it. He preferred to stay out of the authorities' business on the off chance it might make them more likely or willing to stay the hell out of his. So to put it lightly, Dean wasn't particularly _familiar_ with anyone who might be recognizable. 

"Ah, good, you are okay, Mr. Fitzgerald. Now that you are back on your feet, we can begin debriefs. I daresay the Chancellor will be please as I hear he's been quite pleased with the quality of your craftsmanship," the well-dressed man said.

It took Dean a minute to realize the guy was talking about Garth, because _Mr. Fitzgerald_ , seriously? He glanced over at Garth, then at the well-dressed guy, then at Tabitha. Now she was staring, but trying not to stare, like she was recognizing him. But was _she_ recognizing something? Or were both Tabitha and Garth picking up some kernel of information the demon had left in their heads? (And wouldn't that just be fantastic, seeing as how Dean was trying to convince the guy no one remembered anything?)

"Thank you, sir," Garth said, his voice almost breathy.

Dean squinted now, scrutinizing the man carefully, taking in the fine tailoring of his suit and the ridiculously reflective badge and lanyard. So, he was someone important then?

"Forgive me, I have neglected to introduce myself. I'm Tyson Brady, III," the well-dressed, sandy-haired man said, nodding at Dean in particular. "And you are Garth Fitzgerald,IV, on-stage carpenter, Father Dane Colt, on-call exorcist, and Miss Tabitha Cotzwold, who if I am not mistaken is a mid-level archivist for the Spokane-region settlements."

Tabitha nodded in confirmation. 

"You're on the Chancellor's staff," Dean blurted despite himself, immediately regretting it based on the panicked grip Garth had on his hand. 

"Actually, I am a senior member of the Chancellor's _boss's_ staff, but you are correct in that right now I am here at the behest of the Chancellor, not the Crown Prince. Shall we?" He stepped out of the doorway and swept his hand to the side, gesturing for them to follow him. 

"I told you to pay more attention," Garth hissed in Dean's ear as they filed out of the room after Mr. Brady. 

Dean, honestly, was trying to wrap his head around the reference to the Chancellor's _boss_ , now identified as some Crown Prince? But he didn't date voice his incredulity, especially not when mysterious and important Mr. Brady was leading them down a hallway that had suddenly _appeared_ out of a solid wall. 

After walking for what felt like hours, but was really more like 10 minutes, Mr. Brady led them into a large, well-appointed room that looked like it could be a posh sitting room, or maybe a hotel lobby. There to Dean's surprise, rather than being split up and manhandled, the three of them were invited to sit on any of the plush armchairs, couches, or settees that were scattered about the room. They were then offered food and water, which Dean took only after watching Garth dig in and give him a nod. 

Mr. Brady did question them, but the interaction was casual, disarming, and gentle. He didn't split them up and compare their stories, just asked them their recollections of what had happened, and how much they knew about where they were now. None of them knew anything about the physical geographic location of their current surroundings, but Garth seemed pretty confident in understanding some of the parts of the building they'd visited. Both Garth and Tabitha stuck to the story of not remembering anything about the demon, and Dean answered a few questions about the exorcism, including confirming that he'd switched rituals part way through, and confirming that the concussive blast of the exorcism had occurred and was very unexpected.

After an hour or so, Mr. Brady seemed satisfied, and asked them to please wait just a little longer as they were awaiting one last expert and then they would all be free to go. It was encouraging, because Mr. Brady even seemed inclined to take Dean up on his offer (or rather Father Colt) to assist Tabitha in either acclimating to Seattle or returning to her home, based on the hint she might need time to heal after her ordeal and the suggestion his contacts with Kat would best be able to sort Tabitha out when she was ready to step back into her life.

After Mr. Brady had left the room to go retrieve the specialist, Dean's phone rang. It was so unexpected, he jerked in his seat, having completely forgotten he had the phone on him. It was the second completely unexpected call of the day, and considering the first one had sucked him into this mess, he hoped this one was just Kat calling to get a status update, or maybe even letting him know she'd been contacted to arrange transport for her employees from wherever the authorities deposited them. He cast a quick glance at the screen, thankful Kat had programmed her number into the phone, so he could easily identify the caller was indeed her, and answered it, rising from his seat and walking away from Garth, Tabitha? and the door through which Mr. Brady had exited. 

"Kat, hi," he answered. "I think we're almost ready to wrap up here. The exorcism succeeded, and Garth is unharmed." There that wasn't giving too much away, was it? Even if the authorities were listening, it could hardly be a surprise that Kat would know about the exorcism or be interested in the status of her employees. "We're just waiting for one more scan and we should be good to go."

"Dean, you have to get out of there right now!" came Kat's panicked reply.

Dean blinked, held the phone away from his ear to check the caller ID. "What are you talking about?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm and level despite the sudden constricting feeling in his chest. He'd never heard Kat panic before. Even when she'd been worried about and for Garth earlier that day, she had sounded concerned, but in control. This was about as far from that as you could get. And the construction in Dean's chest wasn't just his imagination. Her tone had scared him, and his lungs were responding in kind. When he breathed again, an audible wheeze came out. "We're just waiting for one—"

"Last scan, I know. Meg passed me the message. The scan is the problem, Dean. They're bringing in someone to scan for nonhuman signatures. There was an anomaly at the end of the exorcism. They can't tell where the demon went, and they're trying to make sure it didn't reflect somehow and re-infect one of you."

"Okay," Dean responded uncertainly. "But the demon was exorcised. I _killed_ it. It's not hiding in any of us."

"I know," Kat said, sounding resigned. "The scan will show _any_ supernatural or nonhuman DNA."

Dean waited, wondering what her point was. Perhaps Garth had some magic, or she knew something about Tabitha that was going to prove problematic. "Okay, " he said.

There was a pause and an almost-gasp as if Kat couldn't quite believe they were having thus conversation. "Dean, you're not human. You don't have a drop of human blood on your body. They're going to scan you and they'll know, and I won't be able to do a thing to help you."

"What, what are you talking about?" Dean asked, voice slipping from the tones and assurance he'd been using as Dane Colt. 

"I don't have time to explain, you have to get out of there, now!" Kat repeated.

Dean started looking around for an exit, eyes darting from wall to wall to floor to ceiling, taking in opulent furniture and intricate paintings and sculptures that looked like they belonged in a museum—and knowing the authorities, probably _had_ been in a museum. But he saw nothing. The door Mr. Brady had exited through was still there, but everything else, everywhere else, just looked like a solid wall with no exits. Had the room always been like that? Was this just a slightly bigger, better-disguised vault than the one they'd left? Had he allowed himself to be led into a mousetrap, thinking he was one step closer to freedom? "Kat, there's no way out. The only way is back the way we came. I don't even know where we are, either in the building or in the world. It's not like they let you see where they're taking you," he added in hushed tones. 

Tabitha and Garth were staring at him now, catching on that something had Dean spooked. 

"Besides, wouldn't me running expose you all?" he asked, panic creeping into his voice.

"If they catch you, none of that matters. Just please, Dean, find a way out. There will be other exits, hidden under masking spells." Kat was begging now. 

The sound of footsteps approaching pulled Dean's attention back to the room's only door. 

"Look Kat, I gotta go. I think that last specialist they were talking about is here," he said loud enough for the room to hear and hastily snapped his phone closed, dropping it in his pocket.

Mr. Brady was staring at him, his expression concerned and a little quizzical. 

"That was my employer," he explained. "She was just concerned about Mr. Fitzgerald and wanted an update on the progress."

Brady nodded, and turned to the other two individuals who had followed him into the room. One male, one female, both in plain grey tailored suits that when combined with their overall composed-but-not-fancy look made then completely nondescript and forgettable. They could have been anyone of a hundred or thousand reserved, focused, drones he saw on a daily basis. He could have been on the bus with them earlier, and he would not have known. To the woman Brady said, "Please contact Katerina Volkova. Give her the level two update and ask her to stand by."

The woman nodded and left the room. The man, however, continued into their strange holding cell, and that was wen Dean realized the man was holding something. 

Dean walked back towards the seating area to take a closer look. Even knowing this was probably the infamous specialist that Kat said was going to discover Dean was not human and somehow doom them all, his curiosity outweighed the warnings. Besides, what did Kat even mean? How could she know what this nondescript, innocuous, administration drone was going to do? After all, he hadn't called her since he'd left. He wasn't aware he could even get signal in this building, wherever it was. Maybe the whole thing was a trap. Kat, or the person pretending to be Kat, had called him Dean and he hadn't corrected her. Did that mean the authorities knew who he was? Had he just failed a test. A spike of fear that had nothing to do with the nondescript man and his device shot through Dean. Whatever was going on, it was too late to do anything about it. All he could do now was to be 100% convincing, to _be_ Father Dane Colt.

"Gentlemen, lady," Brady said, sweeping his hands wide and addressing Dean and his companions. "Thank you so much for your patience. My associate, Mr. Green, is the specialist to whom I referred. He is just going to do one last scan of you, and if everything checks out, we will have you safely on your way, shortly. My other associate, Ms. Blue, is arranging for your transportation as we speak.

Garth caught Dean's eye, his expression bleak. Garth hadn't heard the strange phone call, so he couldn't possibly be rattled by what Kat (or the Kat-like impostor) had said. But then it occurred to Dean... the statement about arrangements for their... transportation. That could mean anything. In fact, knowing the administration's propensities, it probably meant the mysterious Ms. Blue was preparing to have them disappeared, executed, or worse if the need arose. Garth had lost his family like that... had he heard these words before? 

Suddenly, Dean wished had taken the time they were briefly alone to try to communicate with Garth, and maybe even Tabitha. Sure, it would have been risky. They had to assume they were being watched and recorded, but maybe he could have gleaned or conveyed _something_. Maybe then he wouldn't be standing here, looking at his friend, staring down certain death or worse without the opportunity to say... anything. Maybe then he wouldn't feel like an utter fool! He caught Garth's eye, tried to show him all the fear and hope and confidence in Garth, he had, tried to make sure things were okay between them, no matter what happened. 

But then the moment was gone. 

Brady was talking again and the nondescript "Mr. Green" was approaching them with the strange device. It was handheld, or actually it had two handheld parts, one looked a bit like the hand piece of an old medical tricorder from "Star Trek" like he used to watch with his dad as a kid. Only it was a little bigger, but not as big as his cell phone or a television remote control, and shiny—an opalescent white that seemed tinted purple when the light hit it from certain angles. The other part was some sort of small screen, kind of like the laptop computers they'd still had when he was really little, only way tinier, and completely translucent. An ever-changing screen that appeared to respond to touch, and had not even the thinnest frame around the edge. It was slender, maybe 3 or 4 millimeters thick, and about the size of a post card. 

This, he supposed, was the scanner that Kat—or her imposter—had warned him about. Curious, it didn't seem magical, just futuristic, technological, maybe like computers would have looked if people kept using and developing them. He should be afraid... either the was being tested and this was a trap, or the boring Mr. Blue and his misery scanner would spell a death sentence for Dean. But his heart kept thudding along steadily, fear forgotten and replaced with a need for understanding. So he stared at it, intently, watching. 

"And lady and gentlemen, if you will kindly step over here, Mr. Green will just take a few moments with each of you," Brady was saying.

Dean watched the specialist adjust something on his screen and then manipulate the handheld wand-fob. Dean took a step closer, and for a split second he thought he saw the readouts on the screen change, but Mr. Green wasn't looking at the screen when it happened.

"I'll go first," Tabitha and Garth said simultaneously, much to Dean's surprise.

Brady looked from them to Dean with a confused expression that quickly shifted to a sneer. _Oh_ , he must have thought they had no confidence in Dean. If Dean really was a priest he might take professional offense at that, but as it was he was almost willing to let it slide. Almost, but not quite. It still rankled him that his hunting skills were being called into doubt, but it was better than many alternatives.

"Trust me, that's not a testament against my skills," Dean said with a half-sneer back. 

Garth nodded emphatically. 

"I know it's out of me, and Father Colt did a great job. I just want to prove to you and myself that I'm free, " Tabitha added.

With a little more negotiation, Garth went first, the decision justified because Garth was the last one possessed.

As Mr. Green worked, Dean watched, noticing how very, very cautious Brady was as Mr. Green worked. He never went within four meters of the scanner. And the one time he came close to that, Dean could have sworn he saw the screen flicker again. It could have just been his imagination, but he didn't think so.

"Miss Cotzwold, if you will, please," Brady said, gesturing for Tabitha to step up to Mr. Green. Once again, he didn't follow her, and kept his distance. 

Mr. Green ran his handheld wand up and down Tabitha in the sign of the cross, then ran it again over Tabitha's head, chest, and hands. Then he dropped his hand to his side and gave a little shake of his head. 

"Hmm," Brady said, half to himself. "Well, Father Colt, if you will." He gestured for Dean to step in front of Mr. Green. 

Kat's warning ran through his mind again, and for a moment he felt compelled to run, fear spiking up and down his spine, but that wasn't an option. And every millisecond he hesitated, he was putting them in more danger. So he shoved aside his fear and concentrated. _You are Father Dane Colt. You_ are _Father Dane Colt. If you believe it they'll believe it._ Dean shot Brady a faint smile. "Of course," and stepped in front of Mr. Green. He didn't hold his breath, he didn't flinch, he just breathed and lived in the moment. He knew who he was. He was supposed to be here. He had sent that demon back to hell. 

He kept up the mantra in his head as Mr. Green worked his "magic." The scanner's wand-fob went up and down and left and right. Mr. Green stepped closer still and ran the wand back and forth in front of Dean's forehead, and again across his chest, and then finally back and forth across his hands. 

Dean watched the screen out of the corner of his eye, forcing himself to _be_ Father Colt, confident that he would turn up perfectly human. The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous he felt. Of _course_ he was human. How could he be anything else? The phone call must have been a ruse to see if he'd betray himself and try to run.

He definitely did not listen to the voice that was pointing out the caller had known his real name. 

After what felt like a little more scrutiny than the others had received, Mr. Green lowered his wand-fob at last and nodded. To Dean he said, "You're clear."

Dean let his hands drop back to his sides and stepped backwards, moving closer to Garth. Garth, he noticed, looked a bit perplexed, while on Dean's other side, Tabitha was openly staring, her jaw gone a little slack, like she was working something out, and it was taking a little too much of her brainpower. Dean just shook his head. Whatever, they'd passed one more hurdle. Maybe. Unless thus was some other sort of test, in theory they would get to leave and then Dean could head home. With the stress and worry and adrenaline crash, it was getting harder and harder to breathe, and the pain in his bad leg was ratcheting up with each passing minute. All Dean wanted was to go back to his tiny apartment and hole up safe in his bed, where he could sleep. Hell, he'd take a night wracked with the nightmare if at least it meant he was horizontal.

Brady was squinting at the screen in Mr. Green's hand, the screens flicking past in rapid succession, probably reviewing all their results. A moment later, he cocked his head to the side, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged one shoulder. "Congratulations. You will be relieved to know you are all clear. There are absolutely no traces of the demon. Excellent job, Father."

"Just doing my job," Dean said with a nod.

"Well then, as I mentioned, Ms. Blue has been arranging transportation for you. Now that you have been cleared, it should be just a moment and we can get you on your way," he turned to address Tabitha directly. "Unless of course, you would prefer I arrange for you to be on the next transport back to the Spokane Protectorate? We have another transport leaving in the morning. One of our contractors, Father Colt and Mr. Fitzgerald's employer has offered to arrange lodging and transportation should you wish."

"That will be fine, thank you," Tabitha answered with a nod.

Brady began to lead them towards the room's doorway, when the sound of approaching footsteps and a sudden commotion drew him up short.

Entering the room, exuding power and radiating mercilessness, two men entered. One dark haired, older, with a receding hairline and an impeccably tailored all-black suit. The other tall and brooding, with an olive complexion, and brown hair and eyes, he seemed to take all the air out of the room. Dean had the faintest feeling of familiarity until they stopped and looked on the small group, eyes eventually crossing his, but no sign of recognition on the part of the men. 

For Dean, the recognition was instant, and he swore he could feel his heart freeze in his chest, the phantom ache of a knife plunging through lung, severing nerves, and severed muscle and bone.

The men were the same men from his nightmare that Dean had been dreaming about for years. These were the men who murdered him. The shock had Dean frozen, uncertain how to respond, when he felt a flash of pain and almost tripped, no thanks to Garth kicking him in the back of his good knee. Utterly confused, Dean looked over and saw Garth's face was somewhere between shock and awe.

"Kneel and bow your head. Come on, Dean, kneel, dammit," Garth hissed, delivering another kick to the back of his knee. "Come on, Dean, It's the Chancellor. Protocol says you have to kneel before him."

Dean looked over at Garth, his brow furrowing in confusion. 

"Kneel," Garth mouthed and shoved Dean's shoulder. 

Finally taking the hint, Dean let himself fall, catching himself on his hands, as his good leg more or less buckled from Garth's repeated kicks, his bad leg spasming with the sudden motion, knee locking short of making it all the way to bent. Once Dean was sure he wasn't going to face-plant, he groped for Garth's shoulder and gripped it tight. Using Garth for balance, Dean managed to rest center his weight on his right leg, his left knee hovering about four centimeters off the floor and trailing his good knee by ten centimeters or so. He wiggled his left foot until he could get a good brace against the floor with his toes, and finally caught his balance, letting up on his death grip on Garth. "Okay," he hissed back, careful to keep his head down, mimicking the position he saw both Garth and Tabitha assume. He tried to maintain the calm he shown Mr. Green, but every time he thought of the men from his nightmare, his heart rate picked up and his mind started racing. Had he been dreaming of the Chancellor? And which one was the Chancellor, anyway? Who was the other.

"How do you not know what the Chancellor looks like, I don't know," Garth muttered under his breath. 

Dean didn't get a chance to answer before the dark and powerful man, who he now assumed was the Chancellor, began talking.

"Brody, Ms. Blue tells me you were getting to the bottom of our demonic interloper problem. What have you discovered?" 

"Chancellor," Brody said, giving a short bow towards the older, dark-haired man, who was indeed the Chancellor, "My Lord," he gave a deeper bow to the very tall man standing behind the Chancellor, "Mr. Green just competed the scans, it appears our guests are all clean, no sign of the demon anywhere." Brody gave a significant pause that seemed to signal they'd been testing for a lot more than the demon. "I believe we have Father Dane Colt to thank for the successful exorcism. 

"Is that so?" the Chancellor said, swaggering forward with his hands in his pockets. His voice wasn't exactly sincere. It came across as sarcastic with a hint of a sneer. "Well then I must give my most sincere thanks to Father, Colt? Is it?" He approached Dean, hand outstretched.

Dean was frozen, watching the Chancellor through his eyelashes, his head still lowered as Garth had instructed him. 

"Shake it, shake his hand," Garth whispered.

Unsure and still reeling from the unexpected recognition, Dean struggled to his feet, pushing down on his good leg with both hands as he tried to regain his footing. He managed to stand with a little wobble and a wince he couldn't quite suppress, and held out his hand. 

The Chancellor grasped his hand and shook it hard. Releasing it he looked into Dean's eyes, skewering him in place.

It was surreal, a face Dean had seen night after night for years, the same eyes, the same face, same expression that killed him in his dreams was now standing in front of him, gripping his hand, and was apparently the chancellor. Had he _known_ it was the Chancellor? Had his fear of the authorities manifested itself in his dream? Or was the dream somehow prophetic?

Whatever the answer, now was not the time. Every moment he delayed, every millisecond he was lost in thought, he grew closer to tipping his hand, alerting the Chancellor that something was up, everything was not as it seemed. He shoved down the fear and revulsion like his mother had taught him, and took the Chancellor's hand. As he made contact there was a frisson of energy that seemed to spark from the Chancellor's hand. It felt powerful, sinister, and consuming. How he knew it had come from the Chancellor and not him, Dean wasn't sure, he just knew. "I was just doing my job, your excellency," he said, remembering at the last second the correct form of address for the chancellor. "I am relieved that we all emerged unscathed. The demon was... tenacious."

The Chancellor gripped his hand again before releasing it, and took a half step back to scan Dean, up and down, with a critical eye. "I'm not so sure unscathed is accurate. Are you injured?"

Dean suppressed the urge to wince. So he hadn't been as good at concealing his vulnerability as he stood. He shook his head, gave a small cough as he tried to speak, disguised it as clearing his throat. "No sir, just a little sore. The demon... released a surprising amount of energy when the exorcism was complete. We were all knocked down briefly. I'm sure I will have some bruises to show for it tomorrow, but really I'm no worse for the wear. I am glad I could be of assistance."

The Chancellor smiled at that. It was not a pleasant expression, but instead threatened betrayal and death. "We are grateful you were able to come so quickly. Your employer never ceases to amaze with the breadth of her resources." He nodded to the tall man, the other man who had haunted Dean's dreams for most of his life, who Brody had addressed as "my Lord." "Your highness, I think we should give Father Colt here a token of our appreciation, don't you?"

The Prince, if that's what he was, looked confused for a moment, then smiled, his expression even more unsettling than the Chancellor's. "Of course." As he stepped forward, he produced a small purple square, about 4 centimeters square and mere millimeters thick, but stiff and smooth, from somewhere on his person. He extended his hand and pressed the square into Dean's hand. "This will ensure you are not... hassled, should we have need of your services in the future."

Dean took the square not quite sure what to make of it. It had to be a trap, right? Whatever it was, if he made it out of here, he'd have to rely on Kat to suss it out. He couldn't refuse it. "Thank you, your Highness," he added, swallowing to suppress another cough. As he lowered his hand back to his side, and bowed, hoping it was the right thing to do, his eyes met the Prince's and for a split second, there was a flash of recognition, as if the Prince had seen _Dean_ somewhere before. But the prince didn't react, and the moment was soon over. 

The Chancellor was calling for them all to rise and then Mr. Brody ushered them out towards, as it turned out, a hidden door in the far wall. 

As they left, Dean thought he overheard the Chancellor and the Prince talking. He was too far away and shouldn't have been able to hear a thing, but though they spoke softly, it was as if the words jumped across the distance to his ears. 

"Something is not right," the Prince said.

"Obviously," the Chancellor replied, "but this test had failed to reveal the source of the treachery."

"It is most... concerning. I apologize for not heeding your warnings sooner. Can you have the priestess ready to meet me at my palace tonight."

Even from a distance the Chancellor's expression was one of shock. "The priestess? Why? Is something wrong?"

"I will be conceiving an heir with the Duchess tonight. I would like the marriage to be formalized so there is no question as to the child's legitimacy. After today, I do not wish to leave anything to chance," the Prince said.

Those words sent a shiver up Dean's spine and as he stepped through the door, to leave the lobby, he could have sworn he felt the Prince's eyes following him.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"You need to search us, they gave Dean something," Garth said, a little too loudly for Dean's comfort the moment they were back at Kat's office.

Trip back had been almost more disconcerting than the trip there. Dean had emerged relatively unscathed, his full bag of gear in tow, plus one ex-host archivist and one thankfully dispossessed Garth, which was better than he than he had expected, but now there was the whole little issue that he had apparently been dreaming about _real_ monsters, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out if he had somehow known what the Chancellor looked like, forgotten, and projected him onto the dream. Only...

Dean was certain he'd first had that nightmare when he was living with his _dad_ and he'd last seen his father before the Chancellor had come to power. 

Another limo with silent driver and guard took them back to the secure bus stop, where this time, Kat met them in another limo. He hadn't known Kat had a limo. He still wasn't sure if she had really called him while they were at the mansion or if that had been a trap. He wanted to ask, but she wasn't looking at him, and Dean had the good sense to realize the car probably wasn't secure. 

So, Garth's question the moment they set foot in Kat's shop was both a welcome relief and an absolute worry. Because. It wasn't secure... was it? Anyone could come in!

Then again, if Dean was about to bring some sort of microphone or tracking device someplace that _was_ secure, he'd want Kat to know and stop him before he did so.

Garth's words brought Kat up short and she whirled on Dean, stalking back across the narrow room from wherever she was leading them to where he was still standing, just inside the door. Dean was wheezing now, he felt absolutely exhausted, and his leg ached like it hadn't since he'd first gotten hurt. He was also starting to notice the all-over pain and nausea that had followed every other exorcism he'd ever performed. So he pulled the purple square out of his pocket and held it out for Kat's inspection.

"I've heard of these, never seen one up close," she murmured. "My relationship with the authorities is based on a different type of currency. Let's see." The air seemed to crackle around her hands and around the square, first purple, then bluegreen, then kind of magenta swirls mixed with yellow. She made several tsking noises, and pulled out what Dean assumed was an electronic scanner, it looked like an old TV remote with a screen, and finally set the scanner down. "It's clean. No trackers, no surveillance, no compulsion or loyalty interference of any kind. Not sure it's inert, but no need to ditch it." She stomped back over to the storefront's door, flipped the sign to closed, lowered the blinds, locked the gate, set the alarm code, and flicked off the lights. "This way," she ordered, heading for the back of the room again, not waiting to see if they followed. 

Kat led them around a small screen, and through a door that purported to be the bathroom. As soon as the door was open, she whispered something in a language that Dean didn't know, but yet felt inherently familiar. He was pretty sure she said something about doorways, protection, and hidden. Then she opened her left palm and a ball of purple light shot out, hovering in front of her in mid air, until she drew a symbol in it with her right hand and _pushed_ the light at the far wall, palm out. 

The white, subway-tiled wall next to the sink and mirror dropped back and slid sideways, revealing a narrow wooden staircase, dimly lit by a strange, shimmering opalescent glow. Kat started down the stairs and the rest of them followed. The stairs curved around and opened into an old brick basement. Dean remembered distantly that part of the city had once burned and been built over creating a large network of underground streets and storage rooms, but that was west of here, from what he could recall. He was pretty sure there was another history lesson about some other period of the city's history that his mother had tried to impart, but try as he might, he couldn't seem to bring it to mind. 

While the somewhat dim, dusty basement with wrought iron lanterns hanging from the arched, 12-foot ceilings, wasn't surprising, it's occupant was. Meg, the mysterious demon who had tipped Kat off to the whole situation was waiting there, looking genuinely nervous.

"What's she doing here?" Garth asked, voicing Dean's thoughts, but with an edge of hostility Dean hadn't expected. It took him a moment to remember that Garth had likely run into her in the course of his current job, where she was apparently just another sycophant aiding the administration. Garth had no way of knowing Meg was the reason they'd been able to exorcise him. 

"That's not the question you should be asking," Kat said, her voice taking on a dangerous tone unlike any Dean had heard before.

"She helped us, helped you," Dean started to say, getting broken off by a cough, but his words fell on deaf ears, because Garth was already bellowing out his own response. 

"She's a demon. She's here. And you told me you didn't let anyone you didn't trust in your secret spaces, so what the hell!" Garth shouted.

"I know where her loyalties lie," Kat replied, "and they're not with the administration. What you should be asking is—"

Dean didn't know what happened. One moment he was swallowing around the tickle in his throat, wishing he had his inhaler handy, listening to Kat and Garth fight, and the next moment he was slammed up against one of the brick walls, his head making a resounding crack as it contacted the masonry, his feet dangling off the ground, toes futilely brushing against the floor as his throat constructed, held in place by Kat's hand. He struggled against her, hands flying to his throat to try to break her grasp, struggling for air. But Kat's eyes were sparking purple, and her hand was _glowing_ so mostly he just flailed about, wasting energy. 

"What the hell are you, and what did you do with Dean Winchester!?" Kat demanded. 

As she spoke Dean felt a wave of something pass over him, breaking over his head with a warm, trickling tingle that quickly washed down his body and through him. It was a spell of some type, and he could feel a faint push to speak and tell the truth, but it was just that, a faint push, and he knew without a doubt it couldn't control or compel him to do anything. "I am Dean Winchester. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar!" Kat squeezed tighter, and the dancing purple light in her eyes sparked with greater intensity. "Meg told me, they sent in a scanner, I called Dean, told him to escape—"

Huh, so it had really been Kat on the line and not a trap after all.

"But he didn't escape and they tell me _you_ passed the scan, came up as human. So you're not Dean. So I want to know who and what the hell you are, and what happened to Dean! How much do they know?"

"I _am_ Dean," he rasped. "I don't know—" but he couldn't finish the sentence because he had no air, and his throat was on fire, and he was starting to panic. He tried to breathe, but wheezed, and the wheezing quickly turned into a hacking cough. His stomach muscles spasmed and ached and his lungs were on fire as they felt like they were turning themselves inside out. "Can't... breathe..." he rasped. "I'm just human."

"Kat, stop, you're choking him," Garth protested, rushing to Dean's side. "Maybe you were wrong in whatever you thought. He's human. That's all. Please, stop, that's Dean. He saved me, and you're killing him."

"Dean isn't human. He certainly wasn't human when he killed that demon—" Kat shot back.

Dean missed part of their argument because it was becoming harder and harder to track reality, as he went longer and longer without enough air. For all their bickering, Kat’s magic was still working just fine. 

"No, wait, it makes perfect sense!" Tabitha interrupted rushing towards them.

"It does?" Meg asked skeptically, with a laugh that sounded a little deranged.

"Stop, please, that is Dean Winchester," Tabitha repeated. 

Suddenly, Kat released her grasp and Dean dropped to the floor, landing in a pained heap as his legs gave out beneath him. "How are you sure?"

Dean looked up at Kat and Tabitha, panting, hands clutching at his abused throat as he struggled to draw air. He was really curious as to what Tabitha would say seeing as how his repeated assurances to Kat had fallen on deaf ears. She didn't know Tabitha, at least he didn't think she did, and to be honest he felt a bit betrayed (and his ego rather bruised) that Kat would take the word of a stranger over his promises, especially after Kat had dragged him into this mess in violation of her promise to him. 

"It makes sense," Tabitha began. 

Kat seemed unimpressed, and Dean was just confused. 

"Well... he's the convergence, right, the unity of the four immutable bloodlines, right, or at least that's what you think, right? So it makes sense that he would able to hide, camouflage himself. I mean, how else would he avoid detection?" Tabitha shrugged and gave off a little bout of laughter. "He's been here for years, decades, right? Just under the Chancellor's nose. There are 30,000 scanners in Seattle alone. If he couldn't hide, he’d get caught immediately."

"What?" Dean asked more on reflex than anything else. 

"Wait a minute," Garth interjected, "You mean he's the fucking Kwisatz Haderach? I thought you thought he was like Tabitha or maybe like me, you know, human, or maybe, maybe someone like you—you know, light fae but surviving here! I had no clue you thought he was someone so... _damn_! His voice trailed off as he slumped into the nearest chair.

"You think I'm a character from a science fiction novel?" Dean wheezed, in confusion.

"No," Kat said as Garth answered, "It's an analogy, 'cause Frank Herbert was from Tacoma, which, you know, used to be the next town down the street from Seattle."

Dean just looked from one to the other in confusion. "What the hell, dude?" he asked, breaking off to cough

"Oh, it's not your fault, they're just doing an absolutely horrible job of explaining," Meg piped up.

"Well, do you want to explain?" Dean asked, glowering at Meg.

"Not really. I'm enjoying the show," she answered with a coy smile that did nothing but frustrate Dean further.

"It's not that hard to understand," Tabitha said.

Dean would have taken offense at the implied insult, but it was pretty clear she was talking to Kat, not making a dig at him.

"Dean must have a natural ability to camouflage himself, to hide. Otherwise, he would have been detected and captured ages ago. And the idea that he'd have some instinctive protective abilities makes sense. So I'm betting if you tested him now and he wasn't threatened, he'd show up exactly as he really is, maybe that would have happened if the Chancellor had tested him and he hadn't been warned. But the point is, when Dean feels threatened he instinctively does whatever he needs to do to avoid detection. That's how he's been living and apparently exorcising demons, practically under the Chancellor's nose, and is still alive to talk about it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean asked, his voice coming out a pained wheeze.

Everyone ignored him though, talking over each other. Kat was gun shy. Meg thought the whole situation was ridiculous. Tabitha was enthusiastic in her interpretation of what was going on to an almost unsettling degree. Garth just seemed dumbfounded and what Kat seemed to think Dean was and equally annoyed that she doubted that Dean was Dean, even when Garth had insisted there was no way Dean could be anything other than himself because he'd had his eyes on Dean from the moment he came to after the demon left until they'd arrived at Kat's office. 

"If we really think people can hide from the Chancellor's scanners, then how do we know the demon didn't possess Dean or evict him from his body and then 'camouflage'?" Kat demanded. 

"Wouldn't that just make him look _more_ supernatural, not less?" Garth pointed out.

"Doesn't anyone care what I have to say?" Dean asked before breaking off into a coughing fit.

"I know it's not the demon. The demon was smart, crafty, but not that powerful. Dean killed it. He didn't exorcize it he killed it, and only someone who was part demon, including a convergence could have done that."

"I don't care what you—" Kat started.

"Wait," Meg interrupted cutting Kat off and showing interest in the argument for the first time. "What do you mean he killed the demon?"

"That's why the Chancellor and his staff got their panties in a twist. The demon just vanished. It didn't go to another realm. He just got pissed off at it not vacating the host—sorry," Tabitha said to Garth as an aside, "reached out and yanked. Crushed it into oblivion. He was following notes in some book."

"What book?" Kat demanded.

"My mom's journal," Dean offered. 

"That's how I realized what he was," Tabitha finished.

"Well that's great, but how do we know they didn't take Dean switch him with an imposter and alter your memories? How can I know we're not all exposed?" Kat shouted.

"Wait, how did you know what Dean was?" Garth asked. "The first time you met him. You figured it out. You had to have because you were asking me all kinds of questions afterwards."

"My wrist. She saw—" Dean coughed again, finding it harder and harder to catch his breath. "My mom told me never to show it," Dean said as he extended his arm, palm up exposing his wrist willingly for the first time in his life.

The pure white mark shown bright against his tanned skin. Three interlocked crescents. 

"A royal triquetra!" Meg exclaimed leaning in for a closer look.

"Can you fake _that_?" Garth asked. 

Kat stepped closer and dropped to one knee, looking up at Dean's face with a sort of reverent wonder. "No, you can't." She ran her fingers over the mark and it sparked, the same silvery sparks that had accompanied the demon's last moments. "You definitely can't fake that," she murmured. "My god, you have no idea who or what you are, do you?"

Dean was going to ask, even though he believed Kat’s question to be rhetorical, but when he opened his mouth to speak, the tickle in his throat became an unrelenting flame and his lungs seized up and wouldn’t move. 

He tried to make a noise, but no air would escape his throat. His hand flailed ineffectually against the floor, but it was all swimming then fading, black spots appearing everywhere. The effect was kind of funny, or at least it would have been if he’d had the air to laugh.

Kat was saying something, explaining what he was to Garth, when Meg, of all people, noticed something was wrong.

“Is he?” she asked.

Garth whirled around, “Dean!” he gasped.

Kat rushed to his side, but Meg held her back.

“I know what this is, but Kat, you’re in danger too—”

But Dean didn’t hear the explanation, because he finally lost his battle with consciousness as his head fell back against the wall with a resounding “thunk.”


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

In the dream, snow was falling, leaving a pristine blanket on a forgotten world. Shadows cast blue and purple and inky black where the rolling hills and uneven paving stones block increasingly dim twilight from reaching the ground.

In the dream, the world was silent; even the wind left no mournful howl as his feet glided across the ground. 

Here, the snow crunched under his feet with every step. The wind gusted every few minutes, once billowing out his coat and threatening to whisk him away. The wind was cold, icy. It froze on his stubble with each crunching step. 

This place wasn't real. It didn't exist. This was just another myth, another impossibility.

He followed the winding path past the village and into the forest proper. Up and down and up and down, over hill and dale as the night grew deeper and the path more uneven. For hours he walked, to the sound of snow underfoot, the rustling of his clothes, and the panting of his own breath, never sure if he was back in the dream or how he had got there. But wonder as he might, he felt compelled to move on, step, after step, after step.

When the last vestiges of twilight fell away to reveal the depths of true night, be reached the crest of the longest hill. The trees parted and the snow stopped, and his next step found him standing in a clearing, the snow a pristine blanket before him, glowing in the dancing starlight. The on a tiny crescent hung above a solitary cabin across the still unfrozen waters of a placid lake. 

He'd been here before. Night after night in the _dream_ more times than he could count. Only now he could smell something faint and impossible like jasmine and cucumber wafting on the breeze. 

His feet knew the way around the lake, clinging to the snow-covered path that rigged the lake and stayed clear of the impenetrably dark forest to his right. 

At last, at long last, he was standing on the cabin' doorstep, the scent of jasmine filling his nostrils as his hand raised, poised to fall against the door knocker. For a moment, time was suspended, reality blending into the silence of the dream as even his heart went silent and still. And then the moment was gone, time speeding ahead, pulling him inexorably towards its conclusion. His hand fell, knuckles rapped against the plate, and the door swung open under his touch, just like it did in the dream. 

Only, when he stepped inside, rather than waking up, hear hammering in his chest, filled with a profound sense of loss, he was greeted by the sight of a woman, short and plump in later middle age, her brown skin cast in a healthful glow, illuminated by the flickering light of a single oil lamp. He _knew_ this woman, only he'd never set eyes on her before.

"Why Dean Winchester, as I live and breathe, it's about time you've come, I've been waiting here a long time," she said in a warm sing-song.

There were so many questions. He had so many... but of all the possibilities, the one that tumbled out was, "This isn't a dream?"

"Oh no, sugar, this is as real as anything you've experienced. You're really here and you are most definitely not asleep."

The door closed behind him with a gentle thud, and Dean jumped, because he'd pushed the door _in_ and he'd hardly stepped inside, so he was really confused as to how he wound up on the other side of the door. He shook himself, pushing away the confusion and asked, "How do you know my name?"

"I know everything about you," the woman said leaning forward across the table. "And you _do_ know me. Only you've forgotten."

"How did I get here?" he asked, because honestly, before _waking up_ in the dream that wasn't a dream only to find himself traversing the familiar well-worn path, he was very fuzzy on what had happened. 

"You got here as you always did. You opened a door in your mind, and stepped through, only this time, you were ready. So your body followed along with your mind."

"Ready for what?" he asked, breath catching in his chest, every hair on his body suddenly standing on end as if he were standing next to a live wire.

"Why to find out the truth, of course," she answered, smiling. "Haven't you always wondered what happened to your mother?"

~~~

"Why," Dean started, scrunched up his nose, sighed, reconsidered. "Why don't I remember anything? I remember my mom and my dad and," his voice hitched, "Sammy, but not... none of this. Nothing about being fae, nothing about the word, nothing about what it meant." He sank down in the grass beside the lake, settling into the perfect sphere of springlike environment in a sea of winter.

Missouri walked up behind Dean and rested her hand on the back of his head, standing beside him and looking out on the lake in its mostly frozen state. 

"I don't think you knew, child," she said honestly, her voice resonant in a way that told Dean she was using her magic to find—and speak—the truth. "Hmmm," she added after a moment's pause. "The full answer is hidden from me."

"Hidden from you? How?" Dean asked looking up to take in Missouri' thoughtful form, her face a moue of concentration. 

"That I do not know," she shook her head and looked down at Dean before dropping to the ground with an ease and grace that belied her appearance. "I do not know. It could be your doing, or Mary's or John's... possibly even Sam's doing or that rat bastard," she shuddered, "Crowley's dirty work."

"But my mother and father are dead, and how could the Cha—Crowley's magic affect us here?"

"Oh child," she clucked, leaning towards him and bumping shoulders. "I keep explaining. I'm not sure if you're afraid to believe me or if I'm just having trouble getting through this thick head of yours." She took both Dean's hands in her own and squeezed, applying just enough pressure to draw his attention to her. "Your parents are not _dead_. Not in the way you conceive of death. They are both Fae, pure-blooded, royal Fae. They are immortal. But they can be banished from realms or realities. What you perceived as your mother's death, was her final banishment.

" _Final_ banishment?" Dean asked, head cocked to the side wondering if he'd misheard Missouri.

"You remember when she went away for four years, when Sam was a baby?"

Dean flinched again at the sound of Sam's name. He didn't like thinking about Sam. He wasn't sure why. He didn't know if it was because he believed Sam was dead, or because he felt something... off and cold when he thought of Sam, a feeling that hadn't been there when they were children, a feeling whose origin he didn't understand, but that he could not deny. Or maybe it was neither. Maybe it was the guilt he felt, that maybe if he'd been with Sam and Dad, maybe they both would have been okay. Pushing aside the reaction and turning back to Missouri's question, he said, "Yes."

"Well that was a consequence from her tussle with Azazel."

"Azazel?" Dean asked, trying to remember where he'd heard that name.

"One of the higher demons, loyal to Lucifer, the demon king. Along with Lucifer, one of the closest things the demon bloodlines have to royalty. In most of the dark fae realms the higher demons form a sort of priestly class. Some of them want to rule outright. They saw the unity of the four bloodlines as their ticket. And Aazel was given the task of making it possible. See, your momma wasn't born part demon. She was a princess, my sister's daughter, in line for the throne in our primary realm. She would have been given her own light fae realm to rule over in time. But first she wanted to experience the mortal realm. It was there she met your father. She thought he was human, you see."

"He wasn't?" Dean asked.

Missouri's eyes took on a distant expression, as if she was seeing back through time. "No, no he wasn't."

"It was all part of a plan that was never fully imagined. If you look at the broader reality, you can see what really happened." Missouri said, cryptically.

"I don't understand."

"The demon Azazel 'killed' your father to gain leverage over your mother. She said yes to the offered deal and in doing so allowed Azazel to transform her. She became part demon. Only she did not realize what had happened. She believed she could cleanse the influence and remain pure light Fae royalty. When your father revived, of course he did not know he was Fae and had not been 'dead' long enough to recall the dimension where he had been when he wasn't here. So Mary had no indication anything was not how it seemed until you were born. She performed a ritual to cleanse any demonic influence. Only there you were with angelic elements that certainly had not been a part of Mary's genetic makeup. As she looked further she found the dark Fae influence, and then she realized what might have happened."

"You mean the unity of the four bloodlines," Dean realized.

Missouri nodded. 

"She thought she succeeded in purging herself and you, which is why she stayed and why she had your brother. She didn't realize then that the spell Azazel used to bring John back had permanently altered her. If she had it's doubtful...well history would have unfolded rather differently. Anyway, when your brother was born, he manifested primarily as dark fae and demon. Much like you, he had active and inactive manifestation of his power. At that point Mary realized what she had tried had not succeeded. And now there were two of you. Two hybrids instead of one. 

"Azazel had succeeded, but he had also failed. Your mother discovered him trying to give Sam extra demonic power, to try to give his chosen one a leg up. Mary defended Sam and fought with Azazel. In the process both were injured and Mary was banished from the human realm. But the banishment was not permanent. She sought refuge in her parents' realm, but she was soon exiled because the demon blood that coursed through her veins contaminated her and violated the laws of the light fae. She was a royal, so she could not be banished from the antechamber, for this is ancestral, royal land. While she was stuck in one of the purgatories, she sent word to me, and I met her here. It was then that we began to piece together what had really happened and then that we began to explore what could be done. 

"While Mary was here, healing, and training with me, the human realm took a turn for the worse. The demons under the leadership of Fergus MacLeod, better known as Crowley, caused havoc and mass destruction the likes and scale of which the humans had never seen before. Magic was unleashed on the mortal realm to a scale and degree that had never before been seen. Old magic, forgotten magic, that even the Fae living among humans had no way to counter. Governments were toppled. Nuclear weapons launched. Cold wars turned hot. Journalists and students were kidnapped and executed. Plagues spread. In the four human years your mother was away, the world changed. The demon-dark fae alliance declared war on everyone else and victory over humanity in the same breath. They started to poison the earth with magics that were toxic to light fae and light royalty in particular. They enacted additional protocols that sickened and weakened angels. The angels, warriors by nature, retaliated, and began sneak attacks and insurgent incursions into demon-controlled territories in retaliation. They didn't care how many humans they killed in the process. And weakened, without the support and belief of major religion to back them, the light fae could do nothing to stop them. 

"When your mother was strong enough to make it back to earth, she first thought she could fight back, undo the damage that was done while she was gone. But within months it became clear, her time there was limited. Eventually the magics that were poisoning the realm would permanently break her connection, banish her from the mortal realm for all time. It became a challenge to see how long she could stay. Eventually, between her battle with Azazel and the illness that weakened her, her mortal form died, and she was permanently banished. But she is immortal, as are you, as is your brother, and your father. You cannot die, not in the way humans do, but that doesn't mean you can't be hurt, or sent away. The degree and duration depend on the circumstances. The first time your mother was banished, she essentially went home and was able to link her way back quickly. Her final banishment, sent her from Earth permanently and funneled her into one of the purgatory realms. Wild land where there are no rules."

Dean nodded, not sure what to make of the new information. Did it mean his mother wasn't dead? His father wasn't dead? If he... died or chose to leave the human realm, could he travel to where they were? We're they together? Or were they living out their exiles in isolation? Was there even a way to find out? "What does that have to do with Crowley's magic?" Dean asked, deciding to tackle the question that he had at least a chance to understand. 

"Any magic he worked on your parents in almost any realm would stay with them and resonate throughout the veil. I believe," she paused and for the first time since he met her, Dean thought Missouri looked uncertain. Her eyes were dark with unshed tears, and she wrung her hands together. "I believe, your mother worked her magic on you to protect you when she died. I can sense her magic in you. See its signature resonating within you. But I cannot see what was done. And I know my niece and how much she loves you, loved your father and brother, and she wanted to protect you, but she would have hidden your own memories, your own truth from you permanently. When you grew closer to learning the truth, when the time was right and you had to act, the veil she drew over your memories would have fallen. But you can't remember what happened when she died, can you?"

Dean thought back to that day, he remembered fear and loss and Mary talking to him, but the details... the details weren't jumbled, they weren't there. "No. I—it's a blank. I always thought it was vague, muted because it hurt, because I didn't want to remember. But when I think back and try... it's blank. It feels _different_ than my other memories."

"Can you remember, was it sudden, a surprise, or had you been expecting her to go at any time?" Missouri asked. 

Dean flinched at the question, but Missouri gripped his hands and held him steady. 

"I do not want to cause you pain. I promise I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

Dean took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it out. He went back in his mind, not to the day, not to the wound or the missing bits around it to the days before, the weeks and months leading up to it. Had he been expecting his mother to be ripped away from him at any moment? Mary's laugh danced behind his eyes. Her smile filled his memory, the feel of her whole and warm and alive. With him, he basked in her love. "We were really happy. she was teaching me, she knew she didn't have long. She'd been getting sicker and sicker all year, but she was okay, she could still go out and do things. The day before... we walked to one of the old parks, avoided the patrols, it was like the military police didn't even see us. We just looked out on the ocean and talked about the future. We made plans—"

A memory Dean had repressed, or at least not explored for the better part of two decades, rushed to the forefront. "She was going to take me to the Space Needle. She knew someone who could sneak us to the observation deck. We knew she didn't have long, but we thought she had a little longer. That day. The next day... _the_ day. She wasn't sicker. She was—"

"Scared."

Dean nodded emphatically, wiping away the tears pooling in his eyes. "And angry. Afraid for me. Angry... She was mad I was being put in a situation, I guess the situation of losing her, but she—I don't get it. There wasn't any reason. I don't know why it changed. I don't know why she died _then_."

"I think..." Missouri began, reconsidered, squeezed Dean's hands and continued. "I think Crowley must have found your mother. She blurred your memories, protected you, hid you from him. But he tried to retaliate, blocked her block, so when you should have begun to remember, the details stayed gone."

"Why do you think it was Crowley?" Dean asked.

"You know he's the Chancellor, the power intent on stealing the throne," Missouri said.

"What do you mean intent on stealing?"

"As a demon, he is not royalty, and cannot rule a realm, not without changing the rules, so when Azazel... failed, and in his oversight created two of you, Crowley seized the opportunity, to champion a prince, manipulate him, ally with him, and usurp the throne. Of course the Prince proved much stronger than anticipated, but that obstacle aside, I believe Crowley also acted to protect himself, his... investment. He couldn't find you, so he struck at your mother, tried to keep you from finding yourself."

"Why me?" Dean asked. "I get that I'm some kind of prince, I guess a special prince, but what do I have to do with Crowley?"

"Because you're the only being in the universe who is a threat to your brother."

"To my brother?" Dean asked.

"The Crown Prince. The only other unity of the four bloodlines, born on Earth, only you can banish him from it. And only he could banish you," Missouri said, realization dawning on Dean as she spoke. 

For a moment he said nothing. He could see Sam, little Sammy in his mind's eye, no more than five, playing with his toys, smiling, telling Dean what an awesome big brother he was. Sam had thought the sun rose and set for Dean, and Dean had felt the same. While Mom had been... away, when—after the fire—they thought she'd died, and Dad had been a wreck, not knowing what had happened, running for his life, hunting for what had "killed" mom, he had given Sammy to Dean to care for, and Dean had thrown himself into it with everything he had. Then Mom had come back. 

He remembered hushed whispers and long conversations behind closed doors. Dad hadn't been sure it _was_ mom who'd come back, or how or why... Now Dean was starting to understand that his dad had probably been learning some shocking revelations about himself. Understanding that colored those memories in a different light. A lot of what had seemed so strange and confusing now made perfect sense. What had seemed to be his Dad's erratic behavior was actually a learning curve, that and bargaining, grieving for the human life he'd never really had. The conversations had settled, and for a year, a blissful year, they'd been together as a family. Dean had Mommy back. And he was still an awesome big brother. And for a time that was both too short and too long, he'd be lived their lives had taken a turn toward normal.

But then... towards the end of that year, the political unrest had taken a turn for the violent and drastic and things got _bad_ fast. When Mom and Dad had come to them and explained that they had to move, had to leave... and that they had to split up, that Dean would be going with Mom and Sammy would be going with Dad, at first he hadn't understood. The one constant in his life up until that point had been _Sam_. But Mom and Dad had both promised it would keep them safer. He'd understood that there were bad people out there and that the world wasn't a safe place, and he'd do anything to keep Sam safe. So he'd tried to make himself okay with it. 

He hadn't understood then that he'd never see Sam or his Dad again. But then again, neither had his parents. The world had tumbled sideways and fast within a month or so of them going their separate ways. He knew his parents had kept in touch _somehow_ at least for a while. He'd thought about Sam every day, about all the things he'd tell him when he saw him. He'd held onto that hope until he... _hadn't_ , couldn't. By then he and Mom had just been running for their lives. 

Looking back, he couldn't pinpoint when it had happened. There was no landmark or signpost on the path from Dean, big brother with a family, to Dean, lonely survivor with no living relatives. Over time, with the stress of a violent and ever-degrading world, mom's illness, his own health problems, the constant fear of discovery, the daily struggle to get by, and live another day, his focus had shifted from dreaming about seeing Sam again to finding comfort in the thought that Sam was out there somewhere to hoping that wherever Sam was, he was at peace. Dean didn't know why, for certain, but somewhere over the years he'd come to believe his dad and brother were both dead. His mom had said as much, or at least heavily implied... Neither Mary nor Dean were all that fond of talking about the really painful aspects of life. Knowing now what he did about his mom, it made sense that she would know something had happened to his dad...

"Did mom know, did she know about Sam? When did he?" Dean didn't finish the question, just let it hang, knowing Missouri would understand.

"Your mother was connected, to all of you. Wherever she is, she still is. She knew when your father was banished. She felt your brother fall. She warned me. That's why she was setting all this up for you. Knowing that you'd need it." Missouri cocked her head to the side as if she was listening, weighing possibilities and probabilities. "I think Crowley came for you. I think he planned to kill your mother, or as close to it as he could, and take you. From there he could either control you, or have Sam kill you."

"Kill me?"

 

"Well, again, as close to it as one can get. Permanently banish you from the mortal realm, effectively ending your proxy of human existence. As long as you live you're a threat to Sam and to Crowley's plan. And the only one who could kill you is well, you... or Sam."

Dean felt the dread inside swell to a crescendo and realization crashed down on him. "You're saying my brother, whom I love and was sworn to protect, who I thought died years ago, is a monster, and I either he kills me or I have to kill him? How—how can you possibly think I could do that?"

"I'm not saying it has to be. I am warning you of reality as Crowley has manipulated it. It is absolutely possible for you and your brother to peacefully coexist as family. But Crowley will do everything in his considerable power to force that outcome. Do not underestimate him."

"What happened?" Dean asked at last, looking up at Missouri, eyes pleading, begging, even if he couldn't bring himself to beg with words.

"I do not know," she said, then let out a long sigh.

Dean looked at her, expecting more and feeling a bit like he was getting jerked around. 

"Dean, fae are many things, but none of us are omniscient, not even Crowley, no matter how hard he may try." She patted Dean's hands and released them, staring out over the lake. "The universe is like the water in this lake, infinite drops, flowing and shifting, sometimes still, sometimes swirling in a current, sometimes blown to and from like the waves. While I am here, my sight is limited. I can only see the surface of the lake, and then, only the part closest to me can I see clearly. What happens below the surface, I can make inferences and assumptions, see hints and clues, but I cannot know for certain unless I happened to be there. I don't know what happened between Crowley and your brother or how Crowley got the backing of the right dark fae royals to be in the position he was in in the first place. But I can make an educated guess.

"Crowley can be a very charming, persuasive person. And your brother, was very, very smart. Your daddy wanted nothing but the best for him. And they were both so damn stubborn and competitive, if Crowley approached him? Appealed to Sam's intellect and appeared to John as someone who could give Sam the resources and education he was lacking, Crowley could have tricked them, manipulated Sam into doing something innocent, but fatal... then capitalized on Sam's psychological aguish to further control and manipulate the situation."

Dean took in what she said and shuddered, trying to reconcile the Crown Prince with little Sammy. Could they really be the same person? Had the brother he had cared for as a child really grown into that... monster? And if his parents really weren't dead... "Why can't you just ask my parents?"

"Pardon?" 

"You said they can't die," Dean shuddered at the realization that _he_ probably couldn't die either. "If they're still alive somewhere, why haven't you asked? Why couldn't they just send someone back with a message?" He thought about it, suddenly angry, all those years, alone, believing his mom was dead, when she was really just away somewhere unable to come home.

"Oh Dean, it doesn't work that way. Banishment, the sort of violent, permanent rending of a being from a given realm, it isn't choosey. It doesn't send you back where you came from or somewhere you'd like to be. There are many realms. Going on infinitely. Some of them are well-known, others uninhabited, still others inhabited by something we've never dreamed of. So you see, when you Mother and Father were torn from the mortal realm, they could have gone anywhere."

"You don't know where they are?"

"No," Missouri shook her head.

"Are they together?" Dean asked, his heart pounding in his chest. 

"I do not know," Missouri answered. "If they are, it is by chance, or because they managed to find each other in a common place."

"Will we ever see them again?" he asked.

"It is impossible to tell, but forever is a long time. Chances are your paths will cross again, but in what lifetime, I don't know. They could be lost, they could be found. Infinite realms mean it could take a thousand lifetimes to find their way back to somewhere they know... or they could be right next door and turn up tomorrow. But what it means is..."

"You can't talk to them."

"No." Missouri shook her head.

Dean nodded, biting his lip against the sudden rush of emotion. For a moment there, he'd believed that maybe, just maybe, he'd see his mom and dad again, maybe not now, but maybe someday. Maybe whenever this... task was over back home. Maybe he could finally rest. Maybe— maybe if his nightmare came true and the dark man— _Sam_ killed him, he'd at least get something good out of the banishment. No more Earth. No more Garth. No more life or friends or hunting. But he'd get one great big consolation prize... maybe a better deal than being on Earth. He'd get his parents. After all, if he was some sort of magical fae prince, did he really belong on Earth?

But just as soon as that happy fantasy had formed, reality swung back and smacked him in the face, knocking him off balance with all the subtlety and sting of a tree branch. The thought of living... _forever_ with the thread, the glimmer, of home that maybe someday he'd see one or both of his parents again, but never knowing. All the while they could be tormented, tortured, lost... if he ever did encounter them, would they know him? Or he them? Would the decades (centuries? millennia?) of isolation drive them mad? But that wasn't all. The more time he spent with the thoughts marinating in his brain, the more he was filled with that sucking, sinking sensation of dread.

"If I die—"

Missouri opened her mouth to speak, but Dean held up his hand in the universal gesture for "stop."

"I mean if I get banished. If I sacrifice myself or Sam—" his voice broke, "kills me, and banishes me. Do I come here? Or somewhere else? Or am I—am I lost like them?"

Missouri just held his gaze, unspeaking. The truth spoke in her eyes with such sorrow, there was no need to put it into words.

"And Sam," he said the name with more confidence this time. "If I kill Sam, or you know, sorry, banish him?"

Her expression didn't waver.

Dean let out a long sigh and ran shaking hands through his hair. "So I guess there's no hope of a happy family reunion. We lose Earth, but we wind up together?

"It's... it's possible," Missouri admitted, "but not likely. And you have to understand, despite being a prince, under the current laws, you and your family would likely all he banned from the mainstream realms. With your active manifestation, you could probably gain passage, residence, maybe even status in the light realms and your brother in the dark, but neither of you would be welcome in each other's realm, and your parents would be banished from both. And that's assuming the council decided to look just at your active powers. Earth is supposed to be the sanctuary for those born of both light and dark. With that lost to you, the alternative is, at best, unknown."

"And if he kills me. I guess I wouldn't come here," Dean offered as one last ditch life preserver of his ever-dwindling hope.

"You would suffer the same fate as your brother, or your parents."

Dean nodded. Then moved to stand. "I think I want to be alone for a little while," he offered.

"Dean," Missouri's voice held a pleading note. "What is it? The idea is to help you win. Avoid any death—"

"Since I was 13, since my mother died, I've dreamed. Two men, full of dark magic. They capture me. Torture me. It's the Chancellor and the Crown Prince. Crowley and _Sam_ , as they appear now."

"It is just a dream," Missouri said. "Dreams do not have to come to pass—"

"Sam kills me. Crowley asks him to, and he kills me. Banishes me from Earth forever, I guess. That isn't a dream. Not just a dream. It felt—it feels—exactly the same as this place did before I came here. And I've been dreaming of this world for just as long. It's not a dream. It's my future." He stood and smoothed his hands down over his rumpled clothes, brushimg dirt from the seat of his pants. "Today I learned what it means." And he began to walk away. He kept expecting Missouri to call after him, tell him to stop, try to change his mind from the truth he could feel deep inside. But she didn't. She let him go.

As he made his way around the lake, the season changed back from spring to winter, snow on the ground crunching underfoot as the world shifted from day to night. The mechanics of it were surreal, like nothing that could exist on Earth, yet they didn't feel unreal. It all felt right and natural and good...

But also, as he moved deeper into the wintry region, Dean had the sensation that he was delaying—himself, the future, the inevitable... What exactly, and why? But if he stopped trying to shy away from it, he discovered he could make his surroundings make sense. Here, in this world, day and night could shift and flex and bend without breaking. It felt alien, but also, familiar. Perhaps because of who he was, or what he had known and seen in the past.

He had dreamed of this place and it was real. He had dreamed of Sam stabbing him, of him working with Crowley to end the threat Dean posed. If this was real, then that was real. But was it set in in stone? Would everything resolve the way he has seen it, or was there hope? Room for change? Could he find a way towards a different outcome. Or was this all preordained? What about...

The snow crunched beneath his feet as followed the path deeper into the forest, and he realized he'd been this way before. He was retracing his path back the way he'd come when he first arrived in the realm. He'd thought it was another dream.

But what, then of the third dream? A little voice he recognized as a mix of conscience and logic was taunting him, urging him on. If this world was real, and his arrival in it was just life he had dreamed infinite times, and if every indication proved he was going to fall to Sam's hand, then mustn't the third dream be real too? Or was it impossible? Because in that dream he had stood by his mother's side, both of them together, whole and breathing. They had looked out on a world that he now believed was neither earth nor this realm, and they watched the sun. If Mary was banished to some unknown place, maybe something horrible and far away, then how could she be at Dean's side? So if that dream wasn't real, then maybe he wouldn't necessarily die by Sam's hand. Or if the dreams were all real, then maybe the odds of finding his family, the possibilities of what would happen to him when he was banished, we're not as dire as he had thought. There was hope.

After all, why would Missouri bother helping him if his fate was sealed? If his life had to end at his brother's hand, if what he saw in his dream had to come to pass, then why would she bother. Dean's _death_ at his brother's hand would mean they failed. It would mean Crowley ruled Earth, and the humans lost as did all the fae who sought Earth as a sanctuary. And if that had to happen, then what did it matter what Dean did? If he was trained? If he was going to fail, why should he hide? Why not just die now? 

He had to believe that Missouri wouldn't engage in a purely quixotic quest. And if that was the case, then there was hope. Some miniscule chance of success. Some teeny, tiny possibility Dean could change not just his fate, but the fate of all the people on Earth.

So why was he running? Because that was what he was doing, wasn't it?

Dean slowed to a stop, suddenly aware he'd been running. Somewhere in his reflection his steps had sped to a jog and then an all-out run. He was fast retracing the path that had taken him here. Now deep into the woods, snow crunching underfoot, evergreens whipping at his face. If he ran all the way back to the place he'd entered the world, would he go back? He didn't know. Hadn't asked Missouri how this worked. And not knowing... he wasn't ready to chance it. Not without knowing what state he was in on Earth or whether he could accidentally wind up somewhere else. The pain and fear of living, existing forever, alone, in unknown worlds, without anyone he knew and loved still haunted him. But he could breathe through it now, pushing it down and aside so it no longer threatened to consume him. 

Turning around he retraced his steps, eager to find Missouri. Soon he was running again. Something about this place made Dean need to move, quickening his steps, lengthening his stride. Soon he was back at the cabin then running, running, farther still around the lake, beyond the boundary of day and night and into the sunny spring where Missouri waited.

"The future is not set in stone," she answered. "So what you are seeing is most likely a possible future. Maybe likely or even probable, but not absolute."

"What do you mean, 'probably,'" Dean asked, eyes narrowing.

"This may come as a surprise to you but every fae has different abilities. Some are more common than others, but every individual's array of skills and talents is different. Prescience, visions, seeing the future, or a possible future is actually not a common trait. I do not have that ability, nor am I familiar with anyone who does. I can speculate based on that I know of our people and abilities in general, but it is just that, speculation, not certainty," Missouri admitted.

"So it's not like light fae do this, dark fae do that?" Dean asked, contemplating.

"Certainly not, child," Missouri answered.

"So do you know what else I can do?" Dean asked. "Or, can I do anything else? Is this it... I just see crappy futures or impossibly vague possibilities and everyone wants to kill me."

"Look into yourself, Dean, you already know the answer, you have already done more. I have watched you and watched over you for years. You have barely begun to tap your potential."

 

More? What more had he done? 

_The demon._

Well, he had exorcised, or killed that demon, without actually using the exorcism ritual. "I killed a demon. With my mind I guess."

Missouri nodded. "Ah yes, that you inherited from your mother. Although I've got to say I am surprised and... impressed that you can manipulate demons in that fashion given that particular skill comes from your mother's demon blood. Yet you have manifested as light fae and angel. While your dark fae and demon blood is there, those traits are dominant in your brother. So it is somewhat of a miracle or conundrum, if you will, that you are so skilled in that arena. Of course," she continued, contemplative, given your angelic heritage, you should have other options for handling demons and angels at your disposal."

"Like what?" Dean asked, flummoxed. And Missouri began to teach him. He learned about angel blades and tested and trained and tried until he could reliably summon the exceptionally outsized dagger to his hand. Missouri explained that it was an extension of himself, which was why it was always with him, but also why he couldn't manifest several blades at a time.

From there they moved onto trying to figure out Dean's other abilities. Missouri thought it likely he could produce the full range of angel skills, including teleportation and _listening_ for others. But Dean wasn't sure how comfortable he was with either ability. The former was almost too magical. It felt like a cheat, and it was very unsubtle. He had a hard time imagining how he would keep it under wraps if he were to suddenly appear (or disappear) around a whole bunch of ordinary people (not to mention what the government would do). This of course led to Missouri providing a crash course on the angel wars, and the attitudes and positions that had led the angels to their current standoff against the demons, their antagonism towards light fae and their ever-growing claim staked in Earth. Suddenly, much more of the day-to day-to workings of the world made sense, as if snapped into focus for the first time. 

Missouri forced Dean to get over his hangups and try, work, until he could reliably teleport and listen to hear those talking to him or asking for him. Dean even managed to extend his focus back to Earth where his unconscious body still lay. He could make out the faint voices of Kat and Garth, and maybe Tabitha and Meg too. He wondered where he was that they were still huddled around him, still struggling to get by.

Once his angelic skills were, if not mastered, then at least comfortably familiar so he could draw on them in a pinch, Missouri began working with Dean to explore his light fae traits.

"There's no default abilities," Missouri explained, after Dean had asked for the dozenth time. "Just because your mother had a particular skill doesn't mean you'll have it, and just because your friend Kat has skills you think would be useful doesn't mean you will have those skills or anything like them. What you can do has a lot to do with your personality."

"So how do I find out?" Dean asked.

"Well chances are you've already exhibited one or more of your abilities and just didn't realize it."

Dean thought back to the argument that had ensnared his companions just before he'd lost consciousness. "Well, I'm not sure if it qualifies as that sort of ability, but I seem to be able to his myself from fae detectors and other tests designed to look for nonhumans. I was scanned with one... Kat says I'm 100% not human, but she didn't believe I was me when I passed the Chancellor's scan."

Missouri just smiled at his description. "So you have full camouflage. Impressive. I should have guessed given that you appear fully human even here and you have no reason to hide." She chose that moment to _levitate_ and appear hovering about five centimeters off the ground, little translucent wings erupted from her back, making her look like some sort of magical, deranged fairy.

"Are you saying I should have wings?" Dean asked, joking.

Missouri fluttered to her feet. "Well seeing as you're half angel, or at least that's half of your manifested abilities you do have wings." She was deadly serious.

"Then why didn't—"

"Flashing your angel wings isn't really a skill. It's flashy and intimidating, but it also attracts demons and the wrong kind of angels," she explained. "But to answer your question, you are fae royalty. It is not uncommon to have wings or a tail or pointed ears or some other feature you would expect to find in a human fairy tale. Most of us have to learn to use a glamour, to mask our appearance and look human. Many fae, especially royalty don't concern themselves with the human realm or visiting Earth because they can't be bothered to fit in. 

"Your brother has quite the impressive dark fae form, from what I've been told. He's all spikes and armor and giant wings. But he, like the rest of us, has to struggle to maintain his control, to keep himself concealed."

"How do you know that?" Dean asked.

"Word travels, even here. Plus, I look in on him from time to time," Missouri admitted. "But his problems are the opposite of yours. No, you need to struggle to let yourself exist, relax, reveal yourself."

"Isn't it a good thing that I'm hidden?" Dean asked, a little perplexed.

Missouri stomped her foot and glared at him as if he'd said something particularly stupid. "Yes, it is a valuable skill, but if you cannot learn to embrace yourself, to connect with all of your identity, then you may not be able to use your skills to your fullest potential. Surely you've observed someone using magic, saw the changes that manifest?"

Dean thought about it, unsure what she meant. He really hadn't seen that much magic, at least not knowingly. But one thing he did remember... "I remember Kat's hands kind of glow and flash purple when she works with her apothecary."

"Yes, that is an example, but for each fae, what needs to manifest and how has a lot to do with the individual and his or her abilities. Don't assume because you've seen things work a certain way for someone else that it will work that way for you."

"Wait a minute," Dean interrupted. "If you were watching Sam, why weren't you watching me?"

"Because you were hidden from me," she admitted. "Whether by your own talents or by someone else's design, I do not know. I could only wait for you to come to me."

Dean nodded. "So, if my natural state is turned off, or hidden, how do I figure out what I can do? Do I even want to figure out what I can do? Isn't it better to stay invisible?"

Missouri looked Dean up and down and reached down and grasped his hands. "I can't tell you it will not be risky. Learning to reach your true potential may expose you to the Chancellor. It could put you in your brother's sights. But if you do not learn who you are and what you can do, there is no hope. You will never have a chance of defeating your brother and the Chancellor. The people of Earth and all the realms will lose their last hope."

"So," Dean said shaking out his hands and attempting to limber up. "How do we do this?"

"You open your mind and let your true self out."

Dean wasn't sure what to do, but he was tired, and under the bright, warm noontime sun as it glinted off the lake, Dean just wanted to surrender, rest, give in. And in that moment something inside his mind broken free. He felt himself shift and bend, expanding, floating. Somewhere in the process he closed his eyes. When he opened them he was floating about 5 feet up. White wings with silver tips and stripes were spread behind him, cupped against the breeze to keep him aloft. His vision had shifted sideways and now everything seemed to be ringed and tinged with an aura. Missouri glowed a brilliant, verdant green, while the lake was a stunning array of silver, orange, and purple shapes and highlights. The forest was surrounded by blue rays and the sky up above glowed pink. He was seeing energy, potentials, relationships between living things and the environment that surrounded and supported them. Pounding echoed through his ears and it took nearly a minute for him to realize it was his own heartbeat, then a minute more to filter it out, extend his hearing outside his own body, around the beating of Missouri's heart to take in the world around him. He could hear _everything_.

Dean took a moment to take in his appearance looking around and down at his body. His wings were mostly white, and partially feathered, but not entirely. Taking a closer look, the silver stripes were actually made up of an intricate pattern of iridescent silver and darker grey scales seeming to shimmer sunlight. Missouri’s aura was so bright she seemed to glow. Dean blinked, and the world was cast in a faint blue, which he somehow instinctively understood meant his protective inner eyelids had descended. He could hear _everything_ —his own heartbeat, no longer human in its rhythm; Missouri’s heartbeat, rapid and fluttering, well-suited to her fairy-like visage; the wind in the distant trees; the snow falling far off in the wintered portion of the realm; the crunch of branches under the paws of a hopping hare; the individual waves and ripples in the lake; insects burrowing in the earth—life was everywhere, and it was thundering in his ears, filling him with its presence. 

Momentarily overwhelmed, Dean flapped his wings a couple of times letting the movement of new, yet strangely familiar muscles focus him until he could control his hearing and vision, sensing and taking in what he wanted, rather than becoming overwhelmed by feeling everything at once. 

Cautiously, Dean reached up to touch his ear, fingers sliding over one delicate, elongated point, and looked down at his skin in awe.

It was then Dean realized his skin was dancing and swirling with ever-changing silver-patterned lines. He blinked, the blue tinge disappearing and the silver-patterns becoming clearer. He recognized some of the symbols from Missouri’s training, from her house, from his mother’s notebook, but others were alien, beautiful but unknown. As he stared, the patterns glowed brighter and brighter, dancing faster and faster, until he had to blink again, bathing his arms and hands in a blue tinge.

“Now that’s a very classic light Fae trait,” Missouri murmured, fluttering closer to him, eyes narrowing in inspection. “Not common, and not one I’ve seen in many years, but classic nonetheless.”

“What—” Dean started.

“It’s your emotions, child. Your magic is manifesting your emotions on your skin. It is beautiful to look at, and takes a certain kind of honesty of spirit to lay yourself so bare,” she smiled, eyes sweeping down Dean’s body, only to widen slightly in surprise.

“What?” he asked again, feeling and sounding a little more alarmed. 

“Now that,” she pointed at Dean’s chest, “and _that_ ,” she pointed at his abdomen, are dark Fae traits. Very, very interesting, given that otherwise, you look and feel like a cross between an angel and light Fae royalty.”

Dean looked down, jaw dropping in surprise to find his shirt gone, and his pants barely hanging on his thing frame, slipped low around his hips. The pattern of swirling silver continued down his chest and torso, but it wasn’t the _only_ otherworldly trait. To find there. On his pecs, surrounding each nipple were intricate patterns of tiny, slightly glossy chitinous scales, in deep, deep blue. His nipples, while they appeared almost human, except for the overall silvery undertones taken on by all his skin, were bisected by chitinous bars that thinned into small rings making a sort of D-shape. He reached up hesitantly and touched one, the slippery natural piercing was cool to the touch and colored in the same deep blue, as the scales around his nipples. He wiggled the ring, only to confirm it was definitely a part of him and could _not_ be removed, and quickly stopped, because a split-second later, he felt an overwhelming shiver and _zing_ of energy and arousal in his belly, down into his groin, and—continuing on to other places he didn’t want to think about all that closely, especially not with his Great-aunt watching him. He felt himself flush, the patterns on his skin moving faster, as his attention was directed downward still. 

There, on his belly, lay another stripe of scales roughly four inches wide, these more matte in tone and colored a mix of the blue on his chest and deep grey from his wings. They were layered in a complex, almost fractal pattern that extended from the level of his navel and down, disappearing into his pants. He had a sense they might go… other places, but again he wasn’t particularly inclined to go exploring, at least not right then.

“What is—am—” he stammered, not ashamed or horrified or even really confused. He understood he was looking at _himself_ his true nature, for the first time, and he accepted it. But Dean didn’t know how to put what he saw or felt into words.

“Your scales and embellishments are common to incubi, a very old and rare line of incubi from the original dark Fae royal family. But the colors are those associated with the light. Your eyes, the secondary lids, that is a very rare demonic trait, but again, the color is almost unheard of. There aren’t any blue-eyed demons I’ve ever met—but there are tales of the first generation of demons after their ancestors split from the angels, there were supposed to be demons who could only be identified by their solid, gem-colored eyes. Yours are sapphire blue, if you were wondering.”

He had guessed as much. Cocking his head to the side and moving his limbs through the air as his wings flapped a couple times, taking him a little higher before settling down, he asked, “Does that mean I’m an incubus or a demon or—”

“Well your daddy was incubus and seraph, and your brother looks like a pure-bred royal incubus, when he isn’t flashing black demon eyes at people, so you are part incubus… but your aura reads like you’re a light Fae angel hybrid, and most of the features of your wings—that’s what happens when a seraph and a high elf mate. Again, not surprising since your mother’s family are high elves. But that all four bloodlines are so clearly visible in your form, even the ones that aren’t actively expressed in your magic… that is unexpected. But it does explain a lot.”

“It does?”

“How you’re able to control demons. Kill them. Perhaps how you survived when your mother died… or a part of it anyway. Why you’re so resilient despite the increasing toxicity of Earth’s magical atmosphere to both light Fae and angels. But most of all, why your mother insisted you _were_ the Unity. One of her gifts was seeing people’s true natures, their true forms.”

“If she could do that, why couldn’t she tell my dad was Fae?”

“Because she had no reason to use the skill when she met him, and because she _could_ see his inherent goodness and sincerity, his truest nature… she told me once it shone clearer than anything else in his aura. But she saw your angelic side the moment you were born. You were how she figured it out. She used to say the demons wanted to make a creature that would unite the four bloodlines so they could use that person to gain control of Earth. But they could never distinguish between conception and construction. Which was why Azazel tricked her, and why he fed his own blood to your brother in his cradle—it was all about control, ensuring there was a demon who also had the other bloodlines so he could rule or at least serve as a figurehead for their cause.” Missouri’s wings fluttered again, and she slowly descended to the ground.

Dean was tempted to follow her, but his wings itched to stretch and flap, and stay aloft, and he found he could hear Missouri perfectly well from where he hovered.

“You, she said, you were different. You came to be through chance and love, not engineering. You were always more than you seemed to be. That’s why she thought you were the child of prophecy. The only one who might save Earth, restore it to what it once was, not a perfect realm, but one where everyone had a chance, where we could all co-exist. That was why she sacrificed herself for you, well, that and you being her child, of course.” She smiled up at him and took off at a run flapping her wings, and flitting into the air. 

She was headed back towards the water, and Dean rushed to follow her, reveling in the feel of air currents on his skin, gusts and eddies ruffling his feathers, and sliding over his scales. When he landed on the far side of the lake deep in the early buds of spring, he asked the question that had been pressing on his mind.

“But what does it mean? What does it mean for me, for—I don’t know how to be this great prince or king or whatever you’re talking about.”

“But you are a king, whether you want to be or not. Your mother was a queen. Had she realized who your father was when they met, they would have been the king and queen of all Fae on Earth. 

“But you are a leader, reluctant, but natural. Your demon blood gives you the power to control or sway demons. Your angelic ancestry allows you to produce an angel blade, and gives you the voice of truth to help others see through lies. Your incubus ancestry means at some point you’ll probably feel compelled to mate and bring heirs into the world, and your elven blood gives you natural wisdom and a deep connection to some of the oldest and deepest magics of any realm. Together you are unexpected, unanticipated. You can walk freely among all of us and yet, remain hidden unless you choose to reveal yourself.”

“Can I win? Is there a way to escape my future?” he asked, watching as the silver in his skin darkened, and the dance of patterns slowed, in response to his own fear and trepidation.

“The possibility is always there. But even I cannot see the future. You know this.”

Satisfied that he had learned as much as he could, Dean nodded and began to take in Missouri’s latest round of training. Now that he’d found his true form, she had him practice all sorts of new skills. He practiced using his voice to compel and sway others. He flew for hours at a time, practicing aerial acrobatics until his shoulders, back, and wings, burned from the exertion. He practiced reading auras with his own eyes, and his demon eyes, and practiced activating different aspects of his form alone, until he could appear how he wanted and do what he wanted without hesitation or confusion. He honed his senses, practiced telekinesis (and wasn’t that a surprise), and began to learn both defensive and offensive spells. Only when Missouri was satisfied that he was not a danger to himself or others, did she proclaim it was time for him to go back.

“What has happened while I’ve been here?” he asked as Missouri prepared him to traverse the boundary between realms for the first time.

“Your body has been in a kind of stasis, since it stayed on Earth while you were here.”

Dean poked at his now once-again fully human-appearing chest. “Isn’t this my body?”

“Yes, but you retained a connection to Earth even while you were here. Your body was wounded by a spell woven into the token the Chancellor gave you. Not as much time has passed there as has passed here. You have healed enough to survive the trip back, without lapsing further into a coma upon your arrival.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow in confusion.

“Just because you can’t die or be permanently banished by anyone other than yourself or your brother doesn’t mean you can’t face some pretty unpleasant consequences!” Missouri scolded. “Remember, be careful, as long as the Chancellor is making Earth toxic for light Fae and angels, you need to be very careful when drawing on your magic or switching forms. It could easily drain your magic, and leave you vulnerable to attack and capture. And don’t forget, your human body is _real_ , not just an illusion or glamour. Whenever you are in human form on Earth, you will bear the damage to your leg and your lungs.”

“I’ll be careful,” he promised. “Now what do I do?”

“Wake up, Dean. It’s time to allow yourself to wake up.”


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Dean awakened with a start, sucking in air in ragged gasps, all too quickly aware of the sudden tightness and pressure building in his lungs. _Fuck_ it hurt to breathe on the real world. (On Earth? In the human realm? He wasn't sure what to call it.) Judging by the generalized pain, the sharp stabbing sensation accompanying each breath, and the tingly feeling creeping in to his face and extremities, it was harder to breathe now than it had been before.

Missouri had warned him. It sucked to find out she was right. 

As his breathing evened out, he blinked away the sand and gunk in his eyes and willed them to focus. He was lying on a bed in a room he didn't recognize. There was natural light streaming in through a tall bank of windows to his right. He blinked again and realized it was actually a wall made entirely of glass, floor-to-ceiling windows, like Kat had at her office... her _real_ office. Judging by the blue and green and gray blur he could make out on the other side of the glass, that's probably where he was. Not Kat's office per se, but somewhere in her living quarters beside it. 

His eyes darted around the room, looking for clues. There were stacks of books—contraband, magic books and journals by the look of it—a dresser with a pump and wash basin. An electric lamp with a lantern next to it. Book cases, a rug on the floor, a door leading somewhere—maybe to a closet, another door—possibly leading to the rest of the apartment, and a chair. The chair was an old upholstered arm chair, with a blue and green brocade pattern, faded with age and sun, but otherwise in surprisingly good condition. The chair was occupied. In it sat a woman who seemed familiar, but he didn't know her well. She had a book—an old tome with yellowed pages—open on her lap, but her eyes were closed. She appeared to be dozing.

Dean blinked, squinted, blinked again. Then he recognized her. It was the woman from the exorcism. _Tabitha_? The human girl from far across the mountains who seemed to know way too much for her own good.

When he had enough air that he was able to form words, he coughed, clearing his throat, and spoke. "What day is it?" The words came out sounding like gravel and crushed glass. He tried again. "How—how long was I gone?"

Tabitha stirred after his second question, stretching as she turned to look for the source of the noise. Her eyes met Dean's looking back at her and she gasped, startled, and jumped in her seat. "Holy shit. You're awake."  
"Yeah," Dean rasped, his breath catching in a coughing jag. He covered his mouth out of courtesy, but that lasted all of five seconds before he was clutching his chest as if it would somehow get him enough air to not pass out.

A glass of water seemed to materialize before Dean's eyes. It took him a moment to realize Tabitha was holding it out for him. He took it, glass shaking and sloshing water on him as he tried to drink. Moments later, Tabitha was back at his side, thrusting something in his face.

"Here. Kat said you'd need this when you woke up."

_It_ was an old-style inhaler. The kind people had used for asthma when he was a kid. They weren't really available today. Hell it was really hard to get any sort of medical products for any conditions as a normal, law-abiding person. For someone like Dean, existing under the radar, on the fringes, they were essential unheard of. There was also the little problem—

"That—that won't work," he managed.

"It's not a regular inhaler. Kat did some sort of magic, said it would help." Tabitha pushed it at him again.

With shaking hands Dean took the device, tried to remember how to use it.

"You shake and," Tabitha began, miming

"I know," Dean said as it came back to him. He shook the inhaler. Exhaled as much as he could, and inhaled as as he depressed the canister at the top. The mist hit the back of throat in a blast that slowly worked its way into his lungs. There was a tingle in it that Dean now instinctively recognized as magic, and it was working to counteract the magics that permeated the human realm and made it so hard for him to breathe. Before his near-death he'd had no perception—no _conscious_ perception—of magic or what made him sick, but now he could feel the magic being worked around him. The Earth was positively teeming with dark fae and demonic magics. The air was so heavy with it, the ground resonating with it, that Dean wondered how anyone else could still live. (How did any of them have a chance?) He shook the inhaler again, repeated the process, and marveled at the easing of his lungs. The magic-enhanced medication was working. "Thanks." He was going to ask the question again when something Tabitha had said tweaked his awareness. "Kat's okay? She made it?"

"Yeah, she's okay. We got her away from the token before she got to sick. Meg helped," Tabitha answered. "We—I—you were dead. You weren't breathing. No heartbeat. And there was nothing we could do to bring you back. And Kat just came over, barely breathing, and she stared at your wrist, and squeezed it. There was a blue... spark. And she said you couldn't die."

"She was right. I can't die. Not from something like that anyway."

Tabitha stepped into his line of sight for the first time and dropped down on the end of his bed, careful to avoid Dean's feet. 

"Are you saying you're immortal?" Tabitha asked, looking up at him with confusion in her eyes.

"Yes. No. It's... complicated. What are you doing here anyway?" he asked.

"That's a long story," she murmured. 

"How long have I been out?" Dean asked again, running his hands through his hair and feeling suddenly, immensely weary, especially since his physical body ( _this_ physical body?) had been lying in bed for... some undisclosed amount of time. Shouldn't he feel rested?

"Five days," Tabitha said, biting her lip.

"Five _days_?" he asked. Although, really, what had he been expecting. In the antechamber, he'd been training for the better part of two months. It had been easily longer than five weeks. He'd known time was passing more slowly on Earth, but somehow he'd expected it was passing faster still. He'd expected more like five _hours_ —maybe a day or two at the max. "How—" he starred to ask, but Tabitha cut him off.

"Kat put some sort of stasis charm on you to, you know, keep you clean, handle bodily functions. Of course that kind of spellcraft is much easier to detect, so we had to move you here, which was... challenging to say the least, bit it was safer than trying to get medical supplies."

Dean noticed that his hair felt remarkably clean—actually his entire being felt remarkably clean. He would go so far as to say he felt remarkably _good_ , except for the never-ceasing sensation of an elephant sitting on his chest and the knife-like pain ever present in his bad leg.

"But um, now that you're awake, we need to let Kat know. The Chancellor's been asking after you. Kat says it's to see if the token worked. You passed their tests but they were still suspicious, and they issued a summons and you didn't respond..."

"So what? I survived and now I'm fucked anyway?" Dean asked bitterly, hissing around a particularly harsh stab of pain him his bad leg. He began kneading out the knots and cramps that laced the muscles, and immediately felt bad for snapping. It was kind enough Tabitha spending time with him. She didn't deserve his bad mood, no matter how good a reason he had for his rotten temper.

"No—not quite. Kat told them you were sequestered for a week in meditation. She even got an order from you supposed order to explain it to the Chancellor, so it looked like Kat was just the messenger. So far, it seemed to work."

"And how long ago did they summon me?" Dean asked, his mind flicking to thoughts of the Chancellor and then _Sam_.

"Two days," Tabitha answered.

Dean nodded. "Help me up," he said, asking as much as anything else. 

Tabitha looked at him skeptically.

"I need to talk to Kat," he explained.

Tabitha shot him a few more doubtful looks, but within a minute she was helping him untangle himself from the covers. It took a good deal longer than he had anticipated to get Dean dressed and presentable, and when he moved, he found himself incredibly wobbly. His legs felt harder to control than ever before he'd gotten sick. He thought perhaps he'd gotten so used to being able to move as he pleased while in the magical realms, it was difficult to get used to the way things were in the real world.

When his feet were solidly under him again, he straightened up, wincing with the sudden strain of muscles left in one position for too long, he asked "Where is Kat anyway? Please tell me she's not downtown?" Even as he spoke, he moved toward the doorway and burst out into the apartment proper.

Kat looked up from what looked like knitting and turned towards the sudden noise. "Dean!"

"Whatever the Chancellor us asking for, you can' t give it to him," Dean announced. 

"You're up," Kat remarked. "The Chancellor just wants a response from you. We've stalled him but he's suspicious and not convinced that token he gave you hasn't killed you." She broke off, but he could hear the unspoken warning behind it—if he kills you, he'll kill all of us.

"I know he thinks that, but we're got to have some other way around, some other excuse, because of we don't—"

"He's trying to call you back, says there is another job for you," Kat said standing.

"I can't go back," Dean repeated. "Because he'll expect me to interact with the Crown Prince."

"You've met him before. I know he's... intimidating, but you were able to conceal yourself. You can do it—"

"He's my brother. The Crown Prince," Dean clarified. "We're just lucky he didn't figure it out the first time. If we try to do it again, he will figure out, and he will kill me. There has to be another way."

"I don't think there _is_ ," Kat began when there was a knock on the door. 

"Who—" Dean began. 

"That will be the Chancellor's messenger. I believe he's tracking your voice," she admitted.

"My voice?" Dean asked in disbelief. 

"Go," Kat said instead, waving her hand towards the bedroom. "Get out of sight. Somewhere I can plausibly say you came over and we were about to have a conversation." She waved her hand towards the back of the apartment again, and Dean went obligingly.

Once he was out of sight, he could hear the door opening and low voices covering, but he couldn't make out any of the words. Just when his anxiety had ratcheted up high enough that he was about to run out and check on Kat, backing her up if needed, the voices stopped, the door closed, and moments later Kat was there, scowling at him where he was limping, pacing a hole in the floor.

"Sit down before you hurt yourself," she demanded with a note of wry amusement.

He obliged crumpling to the bed with its sleep-mussed covers.

"They bought my explanation that you broke meditation early and just arrived over here. The messenger was even reasonable enough to give us time to finish our business meeting before the Chancellor's demand kicks in.

"Demand?" Dean asked.

"The Chancellor and his court, which means the Crown Prince and possibly others will be there too, has asked to see you at 4pm today. You are to appear and bring the token they gave you."

Dean glanced around before his eyes landed on a desk clock and saw the time was just before 1pm. So assuming he was being given a reasonable form of transportation, he had at least an hour before he had to leave. Not so much time they could concoct and elaborate plan to get him and Kat out of this mess if Kat's story were false, but long enough that they could legitimately have a conversation and productive meeting.

Panic dropping enough to slow his pulse from its thumping tempo to something less likely to make him black out at any moment. His attention instead turned back to the rest of Kat's statement. "Wait, what token?" The only "token" he could think of was the dark-magic laced square that had been responsible for his near death.

"Luckily Meg already stripped the toxic magic for me, masked the signature, and gave it back to me." As she spoke, Kat reached into her pocket, grabbed something, and tossed the mysterious purple square to Dean, who caught it by reflex despite his misgivings. "I've had it on me since then and considering I'm not dead, I'd say it's safe."

Dean looked at the token doubtfully, looked back at Kat, then back at the token. "I'm not exactly _like_ you." 

"You said you can't die, right?" Tabitha asked. 

"Not under most circumstances, and no, these aren't those circumstances, but that doesn't mean it can't hurt me, make me sick... and I think getting nocked out for a week _again_ , now, would be pretty bad," Dean admitted.

"I don't really see that we have a choice. If you don't show up or if you come without the token, they come to my shop in the International District, and then they follow us here," Kat said.

Dean reached out, hesitating before he touched it. "Is it safe for Dark fae and demons too?" 

"Meg had no problem with it, and I lasted as long as I did around it because I was tapping into dark fae abilities."

"How about angels," he asked.

Kat bit her lip in a rare show of uncertainty. "I don't know, she admitted?"

Dean hesitated then let his fingers brush against its surface. When nothing bad happened, he let out a sign of relief and let his hand settle, closing his fingers around the small, purple square. He knew it was silly, after all, he'd had the square on him for almost an hour before he'd fallen ill last time, so he wasn't necessarily out of the woods. "Okay," he sighed.

"What is it?" Kat asked cocking her head to the side. “What has you so twisted up that you stopped being afraid the moment you realized that wouldn't hurt angels."

"It has nothing to do with angels, well not really. It matters that I'm part angel, but that's not the big issue here." Dean took several breaths and looked around, realizing for the first time Garth was nowhere to be seen. He wasn't really sure why he expected to see Garth given they were at Kat's apartment and Garth most certainly did not live there. But Garth was his friend, a part of his everyday life. The one near-constant in his life for the past decade. The closest thing he had to family since his mother's death. Garth cared about him, worried for him, had been there when he slipped into unconsciousness... "Where's Garth?" he asked aloud.

Kat's expression faltered at the apparent non sequitur, but her expression softened as she looked at Dean. "He wanted to stay here the whole time, spent as much time with you as he could, but as far as the Chancellor knows, he's one of my employees, and has no relation to you, and no reason he would spend extended periods of time here. They can find out where he lives, and I couldn't let the administration have any reason to suspect anything was amiss."

"Can you get him over here?" Dean demanded, the request coming out a bit more snappish than he had intended.

Kat looked at the clock on her wall. "He should have just completed his current assignment. I can ask him to meet us at my official office after you meet with the Chancellor and his court. 

"No, I mean, thank you, but I need to see Garth before I meet with the Chancellor."

"I'm not sure he can get here in time," Kat admitted.

"Isn't there anything you can do, magically, to get him here faster? I—I need to see him, and the issue with me meeting with the Chancellor affects all of us. I don't think I can tell this story twice," Dean said honestly.

Kat and Tabitha shared a silent conversation as Dean waited. He wasn't sure what they were debating (or what influence the human outsider Tabitha could have), but he hoped they resolved it quickly, because he didn't have much time before his command performance, and whether he went through with it or not, there would be risks and they needed to make an informed decision. 

After a minute, Kat sighed and sat back. She didn't speak, just flipped open her phone and dialed. "Garth, it's Kat, where are you?" Kat nodded. "I understand, but that's going to have to wait. Can you get somewhere out of sight somewhere no one, absolutely no one, can see you?" There was a longer pause this time, Dean knew Garth was talking, probably stress talking, rattling off words faster than anyone could really follow. "Are you in the alley now? Good, well get out of sight... yes hiding behind the dumpster is probably a good idea. Now just stay still. No matter how it feels, don't move, okay? Now I'm going to set the phone down, but I won't hang up, just stay still." 

Kat followed her spoken plan, crossed her legs on her chair, effortlessly folding herself into a full lotus, and placing her hands on her knees, palms up. She sat up straight, leaned her head back, looked up, and began chanting. Her human eyes rolled back and were replaced with orbs of swirling amethyst, glowing slightly. Her skin took on a deep purple tinge, and violet, blue, and white sparks swirled around her fingers. Her ears lengthened and pointed, and her hair took on a shade of deep midnight blue. She began to chant, words that sounded foreign to Dean's ears, but that he instinctively knew and understood. She was speaking a dialect of high elvish. He knew from the lyrical lilt and reverberant undertones it was ancient, older than his mind could comprehend, and it was reserved only for the highest light fae spells. But Kat was channeling a mix of light and dark magic. It was the sort of display that the hardliners would have said couldn't happen, but also the sort of act Missouri had said was very possible. Just... overlooked in favor of purity and prejudice. 

The longer Kat chanted the stronger the reverberation grew in her voice, the faster her eyes swirled, and the more frantic the swirling and sparking of magic grew around her hands. A sudden wind sprang up, even though the windows were all closed and Kat's place was entirely sealed from the elements. The air rushed faster and faster, the room filled with a sucking sound, like the sudden draining of water from a vessel, and suddenly, with a swish and pop, the space in front of Kat shimmered, rippled, and snapped, and Garth was crouching there, looking tired, weak, a little grubby, and absolutely too shocked. 

"H—holy shit!" he swore, wobbling on his feet a little, but remaining remarkably still. "Wha—what the hell are you?" he asked, stammering, gaze unrecognizing, as he stared at Kat.

Kat blinked, her eyes still amethyst, then blinked again, her eyes more or less human-appearing, but the rest of her remaining transformed. "You can move, now, Garth," Kat said, the edge of reverberation still in her voice. 

"K-kat?" Garth asked, blinking. "What the hell—" his eyes swept rapidly around the room, passing by Dean twice before landing on him and widening in disbelief. "Dean. Dean!" He darted forward, stumbling, and landing on his hands and knees, and closing the space between them. His hands questing, searching, feeling, patting Dean's legs and arms and torso, making their way up to his face. "I watched you die. I held you not breathing. I felt your heart stop. You were without oxygen too long. We couldn't... the human brain can only survive for four-ish minutes. It was longer than that before we could get air into your lungs or make them work and—"

"I'm not human, Garth," Dean said, his voice gentle. As he spoke the words, he felt stronger, the physical burden of existing on earth easing a little. It was as if owning himself, acknowledging the reality of his existence gave him power. 

"Oh god, you're all right," Garth sobbed, wrapping his arms around Dean as his body was wracked with sobs.

Dean met Garth halfway, sliding off his chair and sinking to the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. He was holding onto Garth for dear life, body shaking, crying as hard as Garth. He had missed this, missed Garth, and the weight of everything he had learned and gained and lost over his time in the antechamber came crashing down on him. He could feel it all keenly. His mother's "death," his separation from his father and brother, learning the certainty of his father's "death" and how it had come to be, the pain of his brother's downfall, knowing the battle he must face in his future. Knowing how badly it would all go if he failed. They held each other and shook, rocking back and forth until there were no tears left. 

"I was so scared," Garth said, his voice pitched so only Dean could hear it.

"I know, I know. I was scared too. Terrified. I woke up in a dream and it was real." There, in the antechamber, everything on earth had felt distant, not unimportant, but not urgent either. His feelings for people and places were muted, as if the entire Earth had been put on hold. He hadn't missed anyone that acutely. His connection to his parents and brother had been much stronger and their loss stung, burned, bloody, torn, and ragged as if it had just happened. The truth about his brother had seemed at first surreal and then painful, but somehow it did not feel true. 

Now that he was back, everything in the antechamber felt muted and distant, his parents' loss, less acute. His brother, though, the reality of his existence, it felt immediate and undeniably true. He'd missed Garth. He'd missed his life and his home and the little piece of life he'd carved out for himself. And now he felt every moment of longing and isolation and fear that bad been suppressed while he was there. 

"How are you here?" Garth asked. "How are you alive? How did you come back to us?"

"It's a long story," Dean began, flopping back on the floor, his back propped against the chair. "But I'll tell you now. I have to tell you the full story, and then we have to decide what to do. And we have to decide what to do, together, because I'm not sure if there's a right answer. I don't know if I can face him alone. I don't know if I can deceive him. I don't know if anything I can do can buy us time, so we can survive, and everything I do might only make it worse." 

So, Dean started talking, explaining about his immortality and his family, his entire life story as he'd pieced it together from what he could remember, what Missouri told him, and what he'd guessed from his parents' journals. He explained about the training he'd received with Missouri and the abilities he'd explored so far. Then he got to the really difficult part. 

"I learned something about what happened to my brother after my parents split us up."

"They were trying to protect you, right?" Garth asked. "Did it work? Did you find out he's still alive?"

"You have a brother? " Tabitha asked, sounding surprised.

"Why do you sound surprised?" Dean asked, temporarily distracted by Tabitha's attitude. 

"Garth's talked about you practically nonstop. I've heard all about how your mom raised you and you told me your dad taught you how to exorcize demons, but neither of you ever mentioned you having a brother."

"Ah," Dean answered, then grinned, showing all his teeth in a flash. "And... it's complicated," he let out a long sigh. 

At that moment, Kat's eyes went wide, and Dean had the distinct feeling she'd figured it out.

"My father did his best, but the Chancellor found him. He tricked my brother. My brother thought he was doing my dad a favor, and the next thing he knew, my father was dead. The Chancellor manipulated fae royalty, he manipulated my brother and killed my father. And now my brother is the Crown Prince."

"Wait, what?" Garth asked, nor following. 

"My brother is still alive, but the Chancellor is in control, and my brother grew up to be the Crown Prince." He let the statement hang out there.

"Wait, what does that mean?" Tabitha asked. "I get what you're saying but..."

"You get that I am descended from all four bloodlines right. The four immutable bloodlines. Sure they had to cheat a little bit to get demon blood, but my mom is definitely part demon. So am I, although it's mostly dormant. My brother is demon in spades. The problem is that there are two of us, who united the bloodlines and we were both born on Earth. The only way either of us can get ourselves kicked off the Earth is suicide or fratricide. 

"I practically raised my brother for the four years my mom was away. And now I know he didn't die and he's not at peace. Instead he's a literal and figurative monster who has been actively engaged in the systematic subjugation of the human race and the genocide of light fae and angels living on Earth. He's turned his birthright into a war zone, and the Chancellor, well he knows that I'm the only threat to my brother and the only threat to his plan. The reason my mom hid, was because—"

"She was hiding you from the Chancellor," Tabitha finished for him." That's why you're undocumented. She couldn't risk getting you papers, even applying for fake ones. Anything could potentially lead the Chancellor to you!"

Dean just blinked and looked at her somewhat dumbfounded. "Well, yes, but I'm pretty sure he found us anyway, or at least found _her_." He explained what Missouri had surmised based on his memories and the mysterious gaps. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, when a Tabitha was still staring at him a minute later.

"It's just, so much makes sense!" 

"You've not quite making sense," Dean complained.

"Sorry, sorry, I'll back up." Tabitha took a deep breath and seemed to steady herself. As part of my job, my _official_ job," she clarified, "I was responsible for archiving official searches, quests, and purges, ordered by the Crown. Then in my _real_ job I researched and logged what those searches were, who they targeted, what methods were used, who was found, how many, what the results or consequences were. We were using it mostly to come up with policies and protocols to help out agents avoid detection. We also used the information to help magicals—pardon the term—and allies avoid, escape, or evade detection or capture. 

"Most of it made sense. One search would look for dissidents who spoke positively about magic. They would be rounded up and evaluated, and them imprisoned, executed, or used for experimentation depending on the results if further testing. Another search might look for residual light magic signatures and then target occupants of dwellings in which those magical signatures appeared more than once in a one month time period. That all made sense, but on a regular basis, but not following any pattern, there were these other searches—deep background on adolescent school children. Demonic hot spots correlated with known locations of young adults of a certain age. Scans of undocumented migrant workers, male, ages 22 to 35, with possible connections to the former U.S. state of Kansas and their intersections with known magic users. 

"None of us could figure out what it meant. I mean the other librarians commented on its oddness, and they weren't even spies. Where most of the inquiries were targeted at rounding up large groups of possibly magical subjects the other scans were totally the opposite. It was like they were searching for someone. I was right. They were searching for _you_."

It was confirmation of what Dean had expected, so it wasn't really a surprise, but it still sent chills down his spine thinking about how close he must have come to discovery. He couldn't help wondering what would have happened if the Chancellor found him when he was younger, when he had no clue what he was. Would Dean have instinctively known how to protect himself? Would the Chancellor have tricked, ordered, goaded, or otherwise had Sam kill Dean before Dean had a clue what was going on? He would drive himself mad if he thought about it too long or too hard, but it sent a spike of fear up his spine, and he shuddered at the thought. 

"I figured that was the case," he admitted, "The thing is, now I know who my brother is and that he wants to kill me. Or at least that the Chancellor would want him to kill me if either of them figure out who I am. So it seems like suicide to go to them. But if I don't meet with them, we're all dead. They'll know Kat was lying. They'll know I'm not who I said I am and they'll have reason to come after Kat and all of us. Maybe we can convince them it was just me lying to Kat, but they'd lose their faith in her and—"

"Why don't you let me worry about me and my ties to the Authorities. This isn't my first rodeo. You just need to worry about you. As hard as it is to explain your absence, I don't think you should go," Kat declared.

"I don't want to leave you to get screwed," Dean said.

Garth stirred beside him. "Listen to her, Dean, we just got you back, don't go and get yourself killed."

"I don't know," Tabitha interjected, her voice hesitant.

Kat skewered her with a scathing glare.

"Look, when we were at the Palace the first time, no one detected him. They tested him. It came up human. In fact, you doubted him, Kat, and that was part of why he had the token on him so long, got so sick. He was scared, but he kept his cool. Why can't he just do the same thing again?"

Dean sighed. "I keep thinking about it, and I don't know what will happen when I see them now. I can camouflage. It's instinctive and it's apparently what's kept me safe all these years. But if I go to the Chancellor now, I know who he is. I know what he is. I know the Crown Prince is my brother, and I know what I am and why they want to kill me. I don't know if that knowledge, or the conflict of seeing my brother is going to override my camouflage. And if it does, they'll realize what I am. And then I die and I doom all of you and everyone else with me." He shook his head. "It seems like either way that's a risk."

"Yes, but only this way delivers you right into their hands, so they can kill you," Garth protested.

"But going to them is the only way that has the possibility that we all make it out of this completely unscathed," Dean countered.

 

"The choice, is yours, Dean," Kat said at last. 

"But it affects all of you," Dean protested.

Garth and Tabitha both looked like they were gearing up to chime inn and probably argue with each other, but Kat just shook her head. 

"It is you who must choose, because it is you who must go, or not go. It is your brother. Your destiny. Arguably your rightful crown they have stolen, and your life they would forfeit in their quest for absolute power. You will be at risk of exposure if you go, and it will be you who is the prime suspect if you do not. You must weigh the consequences. No one can make the choice, but you," Kat explained.

Dean sat in silence, acutely aware of the warmth radiating from Garth, the comfortable press of a familiar body against his making him feel secure in his own skin. He thought about what he'd learned, how he'd trained with Missouri. He was an instinctive camouflager. Would he really do the _worst_ thing for himself and _not_ hide, just because some part of him desperately wanted a way to save his baby brother, to reconnect with the kind soul he'd known that was purportedly hiding somewhere beneath the Crown Prince's decidedly inhuman exterior. He didn't think his innate sense of self-preservation would fail him now. He was afraid, bit he had faith in himself, his friends, and his skills, and that trust would see him through.

"I'll go," he said at last. "I have to. It's our best option and I need to know if my ability to camouflage will stand up to this sort of scrutiny." He glanced around at his companions. "But if I'm gonna do this, I need all the help can get. Starting with how the hell am I gonna breathe over there and how can I limp less."

"The limp is easy," Tabitha blurted, then slapped her hands over her mouth in embarrassment. "Sorry," she said sounding genuinely chagrinned. "What I meant is, they know to got thrown around by a demon. That Brody guy, the Crown Prince's head thug, he saw the room was tossed all around and you were staggering around, pulling yourself to your feet. It's not that difficult to imagine you got hurt as a result of that. So don't hide. Play it off as something annoying and unavoidable that came out of your tussle with the demon. It makes your time away more plausible too. Getting banged up by something and then taking extra time to meditate. That makes sense."

Dean thanked her. After all, it was sound advice, and he could almost see himself pulling this off. "And when they notice I can't breathe?" he asked nervously. 

Kat tsked for a moment, wagging her finger, then closed her eyes. A few seconds of chanting later, and Dean felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. His lungs still ached and breathing wasn't exactly _easy_ , but it was a lot easier than it had been before. He opened his mouth to thank Kat only to grimace when he realized she was now breathing heavily.

"What, what did you do?" he asked.

Kat was wheezing a little, but her stern glare stopped him from protesting. "There are a lot of strategies to help. The magic the Chancellor and Crown Prince have worked takes its toll in different ways. For most of us it makes it harder to breathe, but for some it drains their strength, their senses, leaves them blinded or immobile. The spell works by targeting light magic itself and physically taxing it's use. All light fae and angels are connected to light magic just by existing, even if you are not using magic or even aware it exists, it touches you. So the spell makes everyone with a light inclination, sick."

Dean nodded slowly, pieces slowly clicking together. "Which is why it was bad before, but it's so much worse now. Now I'm aware of my connection, actively using magic, more in contact with the light."

"Yes," Kat agreed. She took a few moments to catch her breath and powered on. "There are very few light fae left in this world with anywhere near my level of power, let alone yours. The strain the Chancellor's magic puts on us is too much for most to bear."

"What happens to them?" Garth asked, voicing the question Dean's mind had just answered.

"They die," Dean said. "Only fae and angels aren't mortal, so it's more like they're permanently banned from this realm and cast out into the unknown. They materialize somewhere, but where they don't know. It could be someplace familiar, or someplace unknown and far, far away." He looked at Kat. "You can still touch your dark magic. When your allegiance shifted, for some reason your magic so of stayed. You got a lot of light fae abilities and kept some of the Dark. That lets you mask your magical signature so the Chancellor and his goons can't track you. Because you use your dark fae powers more, they buy your cover story that you're dark and aligned with them. And because you use the dark magic more, you access less light magic and the Chancellor's spell doesn't affect you as much as it otherwise would Only now you used light magic to help me, and you're paying the price."

Kat nodded slowly.

"So does that mean you're going to die?" Garth asked.

"No?" Dean shook his head. "Because I was born here, I can't be banished... it's a big part of what you saw when I was poisoned. But... my brother could kill me. He's the only one like me. The only one who could."

"But your brother is the Crown Prince, and you've been ordered to an audience with him," Garth said, sounding a little lost.

"Hence the dilemma," Dean acknowledged. "What did you do?" He asked Kat again. "I cast on you, it is a light fae spell that shields the recipient from dark magic imposed from without. While the spell is in effect, the Chancellor's ability to harm you with dark magic is diminished. You can now breathe much better, because you are only getting the wisps of his spell where they slip around the shielding. I am sicker because the spell itself is light. I exposed myself to a large amount of light magic, so the effects of the Chancellor's spell are hitting me harder."

"Thank you," Dean said, squeezing Kat's hand, and meaning it. 

He shared a quick hug with Garth and set about getting ready to go. He needed to say more to Garth, needed to listen to his best friend, especially since Garth had rushed to Dean's side, no questions asked, and had been taken through a rather unorthodox magical means to get there. But now simply wasn't the time, if he opened up to Garth, he'd miss the meeting and put them all at risk. "We'll talk more later." He squeezed Garth's shoulder, hard. "I'll be back. I promise." To Kat he asked, "How long do I have before this wears off? 

"Five and a half hours from when it was cast," she answered, "but it is gradual, so it will give you time to adapt, prepare. A warning to get out."

"Good to know," Dean agreed.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Late that night, when they were back in their apartment with its familiar creaky pump, hidden batteries, and bolt holes filled with contraband, Dean felt an almost surreal disconnect from his surroundings. It was the first time in almost a week since he'd been home, yet in many ways, the tiny apartment with its cramped quarters and nonexistent amenities didn't feel like home anymore. The only thing was, if it wasn't home, he wasn't sure what was.

From his perspective, he'd spent over a month training with Missouri, existing in an impossible world that was real, and in many ways now felt more real, and more like home than Earth did. He missed Missouri. He worried about her, or at the very least, empathized for her loneliness, her mostly solitary existence in the antechamber, watching over, watching out, always ready, always waiting. And now Dean felt like he was always waiting too...

For the other shoe to drop. For his brother to kill him. For the Chancellor to realize who he was. For his lungs to stop working and no amount of birthright magic to save him. 

But he was also always waiting for his parents. For the world that had been set on "pause" when he was nine years old, only to be lost and swept away without any sort of closure, to come back. Missouri had done her best to take away the false hope that somehow he'd see his parents again, that if he or his brother was finally banished from this world, they’d get to reunite with their parents. But even knowing the beyond infinitesimal odds, part of him wished, and ached, and warned. And somehow in a week that was more than a month, that pipe dream felt more real than the apartment in which he'd lived for over a decade. Nothing here felt real. Nothing here felt possible.

At Kat’s insistence, they moved out of the tiny apartment two days later, taking up residence in Kat’s own building, in the space next to hers. Dean was pretty sure it had an adjoining door hidden somewhere as a means of quick escape, but he wasn’t sure and was a little bit afraid to ask.

Kat explained that with the Chancellor taking such an _interest_ in Dean, or rather Father Dane Colt, it was too risky to have Dean commuting from his current hovel. If he or Garth were tracked back there, it would be too easy for the Chancellor’s men to snoop and discover their secrets. Better to have Dean and Garth close, safe, where they could pool their magic protections and she could keep an eye on things.

Dean couldn’t help thinking that maybe she _still_ didn’t trust him, but after his breakdown at her place before his follow-up meeting with the Chancellor, he’d gotten the sense that Kat unquestioningly understood who he was.

She called him “your highness,” sometimes, and explained that since she knew who he was, and had pledged her loyalty to him, to not acknowledge his royal title would be unspeakably wrong. But that just made Dean uncomfortable. He didn’t want to be king, or even prince. He was still trying to get a handle on using his powers in the human realm, after all.

At first, Dean kept up with Kat’s jobs, using alternate identities a few times, slipping in and out of checkpoints, couriering various intel around. But then, suddenly the patrol schedules started changing and the sector borders were redrafted, and Dean had one incredibly terrifying moment where he thought one of the Military Police saw him cutting under a fence _and_ recognized him. But the guard blinked and then couldn’t seem to see Dean when he looked again. The officer just stared, looking increasingly confused, calling over one fellow officer and then another before finally relaxing back to their usual patrol.

Kat surmised it was Dean’s camouflage at work, but after that, he only went out on missions as Father Colt. And not a moment too soon. He wasn’t called back to the Chancellor’s residence again, but he was called out to other government work sites to deal with demonic and supernatural problems—a haunting here, a possession there, nothing a real Priest wouldn’t work with. But after two weeks, it was all demons all the time. 

Dean wondered how long he could keep going. Kat’s medicines seemed less and less effective, and he noticed she seemed to be under more strain too. He declined the Chancellor’s assignments a few times, citing important parish business that couldn’t be rescheduled. But each time he did so, he feared the government would contact the church and find out Dane Colt wasn’t really a priest there.

Kat told him not to worry though, and he tried to comply.

Almost three months after his first fateful encounter with the Chancellor, and a little more than two and a half months after he “woke up” from his sojourn in the Antechamber, Dean almost collapsed with exhaustion and strain after one particularly grueling day. He was called on to complete five separate exorcisms. He wasn’t sure if the Chancellor really had a demon revolt on his hands, or if this was all some sort of attempt to try to recreate the circumstances of the “anomaly” at the Chancellor’s house. But Dean was careful, so careful. Oh, he _killed_ the demons, alright, they almost always new too much, one of them actually screamed something about “blue-eyed master” even though Dean’s eyes remained strictly human in appearance throughout the exorcism. But now that he knew what different realms _felt_ like, and he knew what and how the Chancellor was tracking, he figured out how to project an image of the demon into a different realm, following through on what an exorcism was supposed to do, even as he tore the demons apart with his mind.

That day, he couldn’t hide his limp. He claimed exhaustion again, but he was worried they didn’t believe him.

That night, he felt increasingly ill. His back throbbed. His leg ached. It grew harder to breathe. He tried shifting, letting his true form out, and that helped for a while until the pressure and pain began building again, as if they were trying to crush Dean back into human form. He gave in to the urge to switch, hide, and did, shifting back to human guise. But as soon as he did, the pain became unbearable. He couldn’t even cry out, because his lungs seized and his throat swelled up.

When he awoke, 18 hours later, there was a tube in his trachea bypassing his still completely swollen throat as a makeshift magic-powered ventilator pumped air into paralyzed lungs. It was two more days before he could breathe on his own again, and three before he had enough strength to heal and conceal the still-healing incision in his throat. 

He didn’t ask what excuse Kat made for him, he just went out and performed another exorcism the next time the Chancellor called.

But even Kat was looking horrible, run down and ragged. She too, was having more and more trouble breathing, even though she’d been relatively healthy just months before when Dean first met her. Apparently it was going around. All of Kat’s light Fae and angel agents were getting sicker. Garth and Tabitha tried to keep their voices down, but they weren’t quiet enough for Dean’s hypersensitive hearing.

~~~

They soon figured out the problem. The Chancellor had escalated his spells. There were more people helping, casting bigger, and grander magic, covering a larger and larger area. He was gearing up to wipe all light Fae off the face of the Earth. Soon even pureblood angels, protected from the brunt of the Chancellor's spells by the positive religious influence, would begin to suffer the effects. And when they did, they would lash out with every ounce of strength and it would be war—hell on earth. A war zone. Complete destruction of the human race and their very planet.

If they waited any longer, they'd all be too sick, there would be no way to overcome the Chancellor's magic. More than that, anything they tried to do would be easily tracked, routed out. They had a window, a narrow window, within which to act. If they did, they might survive long enough and stay strong enough to make a difference. He wasn't sure what to do exactly, he wasn't even certain who _they_ were—Kat kept her cells and agents separated, need-to-know only. For that matter, he wasn't even certain of Kat's position in the overall hierarchy. Dean just hoped it wasn't already too late.

Garth was resistant. Scared for Dean and Kat. But Dean countered, “If we don't do something now, I won't get any better. Kat won't recover. The Chancellor will search and search because I’ll be too sick to hide. And he'll send my brother in, and Sam will kill me. He'll banish banish me from Earth forever and probably kill everyone else I’ve ever met. You’ll die. Tabitha will die. I can’t let that happen."

Garth sighed, collapsing into the small chair next to Dean’s bed as he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "What can I do? How can I help?"

"Help me convince Kat?"

Five minutes later Dean limped his way through the door between the adjoining apartments, as Garth followed him into Kat’s place.

Kat looked like death, or perhaps, more accurately, she looked like Dean had felt after the five-exorcism debacle. Her skin was waxy and pale, eyes shadowed, cheeks hollow, and hair limp and dull. 

"Can you wake her?" Dean asked Tabitha, who had been keeping a vigil of sorts at Kat's bedside.

"It don't know," Tabitha admitted. She reached out and shook Kat, called her name several times, and slapped her face, lightly.

Still no response.

"Let me try," said Dean as he rolled his chair closer, crossed his palms in his lap, and shut his eyes. It was a mediation technique Missouri had taught him. He centered himself then reached out extending his senses looking past the superficial to see what was hidden underneath. He was using magic, but like this it was almost passive as he tapped into the magic all around them. It was easier, almost effortless, the constant strain hardly noticeable. He could see himself, the shape of his power, and the lives of everyone around him, even Kat’s powerful and beautiful, but right now flickering under the strain. He could let his senses spread out further and further, and soon in his mind's eye, there were people all around him. His senses expanded, taking in the bodies in the building and the building next door, so many. Mostly human, but there were angels hiding out and plenty of demons and dark Fae circling around, but there were light Fae too, hanging on, existing, somehow finding a way to keep going, staying hidden, putting one one foot in front of the other.

Were they members of Kat's resistance? Did they oppose the Chancellor and everything he stood for? We're they refugees, or had they been born ok Earth like Dean? Better question, would they agree to openly defy the Chancellor? And how many were Fae? What if Kat’s resistance was entirely human, save herself and Dean? Then what would he do?

His attention drifted back to Kat. He could feel her in there, carefully tucked, away in a corner of her subconscious, meditating in a trance, trying to heal. She was frustrated, her anger sharp and refined, lashing put like a blade in Dean's subconscious. She knew her frustration and anger weren't helping, but she couldn't quite keep them in check. She'd been under far deeper and longer than she'd planned, and it was only when, magic spent and body paying the price, she'd slipped into a trance that she realized the Chancellor's reach and effect were growing steadily greater at an alarming rate. She feared it might be too much.

So deep in her introspective conga line of horor was she that it took Dean a good minute to catch her attention. When she finally noticed he was there _in her head_ her reaction was one of bewildered confusion.

"We need to talk." Dean's statement was blunt, point blank, and sure, intended to short-circuit any disbelief or reflexive royalty worship Kat might slip into. He spoke to her, for the first time, not as an uncertain student or as a fragile king to be revered and protected, but as an equal. Five seconds passed, waiting for the import of his words to penetrate, and satisfied, Dean gave a little _push_ with his mind.

In the real world, on Earth, Dean and Kat's eyes blinked open in unison and they both made a little gasp.

"What—" Tabitha started to say, but a silent head shake from Garth silenced her.

"If we don't do something now, the Chancellor will win without even firing a shot or casting another spell. You felt it. You know what it means, you can't deny it. We figured out _how_ he's doing it, and how to stop it. But we have to act now. I need you to get me every single magical person in your resistance. I don't care if they're light, dark, demon, angel, if they're part human. If they can use magic and they're on our side, you need to gather them, now."

"I can't bring them all here, are you out of your mind?" Kat protested, her voice hoarse and raw. 

"Not here. Nothing that would easily be traced to us, and nothing that would lead the Chancellor to us. Someplace unexpected, maybe distant." His eyes flicked to Tabitha, assessing. "Someplace they'd never suspect, perhaps someplace you know." The _you_ was directed at Tabitha.

She stared at him, unblinking, for what felt like forever, a mix of shock and disbelief slowly giving way to careful consideration. Doubt clouded her features, but Dean held her gaze 

He could feel it within her, that almost unconscious spark of understanding. She hadn't understood the full scope of the location's significance, and Dean didn't know where or what the place was, just that it was the key, there best chance. But he knew, in time, she'd name the one place that just _felt_ different to her. The problem was they didn't have a lot of time. "Just say the first place that comes to mind, it's the right one."

"The chamber. The chamber behind the waterfall next to the power plant where I found the demon," Tabitha said at last.

"Chamber?" Garth asked as Dean said "Waterfall?" and Kat just got a very wide-eyed look upon her face.

"You found it," Kat marveled. She pushed herself up on one elbow, straining and shaking with every movement, but determined in her goal. "You never said you _found_ it!" 

"What the hell are you talking about? Found what?" Garth repeated.

Kat reached out with the hand that wasn't supporting her at the moment and latched onto Tabitha's hand. "You found it?!" she marveled again, her words falling somewhere between a statement and a question.

"Wait, you two knew each other before the possession? Tabitha was working for you," Dean realized, gaze darting back and forth between Kat and Tabitha looking for confirmation. 

"Yes," Tabitha confirmed.

"Indirectly," Tabitha added She shrugged. "I've been in the resistance since I was 15. I've always been in my cell. I had no clue who anyone else was and all that. But I knew there was a general directing us all. I just never imagined I'd meet her."

Dean turned to Kat. "So you are in charge. It _is_ you at the top. So you _can_ bring everyone together."

Kat looked down at her hands. "There were others before me and equal to me... over the years many fell until I was left, alone, to carry out their wishes, achieve their dreams. Two years ago, I was at the end of my rope. Thought I'd hit a dead end. Not enough strength or troops to get the job done. Then Meg showed up. Told me she knew who I was and wanted to defect. I spent about a week trying to figure out if there was any way I could save what I'd built now that I'd been made and was about to be sold out at any moment. On the morning of the eighth day, when I was packing up to either go in the run or turn myself in, Meg showed up again. This time she didn't have time for my whining or fretting. She told me one of the most promising and honest souls she'd ever known was about to get sold out and tagged by a small-time businessman who was in trouble with the Prince and was going to use this honest soul as leverage to buy his way out." Kat turned her attention to Garth, whose expression had turned strangely horrified. "I hired you the next day," she said to Garth.

Garth blinked then shuddered. "God. we could've been caught. We would have..." bus voice trailed off.

Dean needed Kat's help. He had a specific goal they needed to achieve, but at the same time, curiosity sparked was starting to burn. He needed to know... "Did you, or did Meg —if you know —have any idea about me? I mean, when did you start to —"

"Suspect?" Kat asked.

Dean nodded in agreement. 

"I didn't, not when I first met Garth. I actually thought he had taught you about hunting, the supernatural, magic."

"Did Meg know? Has she been sitting on this for years?" Dean asked, eyes suddenly tearing with frustration. He'd been so careful. Had it all been for nothing? Had his identity been compromised before he even had an inkling of who —what —he was? 

"No, no, we’ve never talked about it specifically, but I really don't think so," Kat reassured. Her words weren't hollow, though, there was honesty in what she was saying. "It wasn't until six months later that Garth mentioned he learned some techniques from you. But I still didn't know. I thought you were like him... until the pieces started to fall into place."

"What pieces?" Garth asked, taking Dean's hand and squeezing hard.

Dean answered. Understanding himself as he did now, it was easy to see what would have tipped Kat off, someone like him, sliding through the world without touching it, trying to make everyone think you're someone you're not. "My asthma, no papers, my skill with exorcisms—and my issues with them."

"And your limp."

"My limp?" Dean asked, surprised. 

To his surprise it was _Tabitha_ who answered. "I used to think it was kind of an urban legend, something government insiders used to tell to target people or parents told to scare their kids. I never thought there was any truth to it until I met you.

"The story goes, the Chancellor almost caught the other prince. He killed the queen and almost captured her son, before the queen's last spell activated and nearly killed the Chancellor. But before that happened, the Chancellor wounded the prince badly, crushed his leg and wrecked his knee so he'd always be able to find the prince."

For a moment Dean's mind went somewhere else, distant, forgotten. He could still feel his mother, hear her words, her promise. She'd told him to trust her, and she promised it would keep him safe... Shock and loss and fear rolled through him in quick succession. He could see someone, standing over him... had he been running away? There was pain so much pain. His lungs burned and his leg was on fire... A man, possibly the Chancellor, maybe not, but younger, was standing over him carrying a long, pointed silver dagger... like the one that Dean saw in his nightmares. His heart was pounding in his ears, blood in his mouth, he was going to die—but then there was a giant white flash and everything went away. 

Dean blinked. He was back in the present at Kat's bedside. Was that a memory? Had he actually remembered details from the day his mom died?

"Whoa, what is it?" Garth asked.

"My mom... I had figured out she did something before she died, but that spell? The queen's last spell? She wiped our memories. The Chancellor can't find me, because he doesn't remember me, what I looked like, what my name is," Dean answered. He considered the new bit of information, let one more piece of the puzzle that was his past click into place. "Thank you for telling me, but we need to move, get out of here, we're running out of time."

"Dean, I think I understand what you're implying, but I don't know how it would work," Kat said.

So Dean painstakingly kept his cool while he walked through a conversation he’d had with Missouri in the Antechamber while he’d last been unconscious. "I can feel that we have to do this now. It's like every second we delay, my skin itches, like it wants me to be uncomfortable? to _move_. This is our one chance. We pull this off, we buy all of us enough of a reprieve from the Chancellor's magic that we can regroup and start planning counter attacks."

"Ah," Kat replied, swallowing around an obviously suppressed cough. "So now you're a general and tactician? We're nowhere near ready enough to build any sort of counter attack!"

Dean dug his fingers into the side of Kat's mattress, letting the anger and frustration wash over him, leaving calm resolve in their wake. "With all due respect, I know you were planning for a longer cold war, but the Chancellor's stepped up his timetable. I'm pretty sure the Dutchess's pregnancy kicked him into gear. He feels emboldened. We act now or we die slowly, painfully, fading into the background without so much as a whimper."

“If instead, we act now, we might not die. But we need everyone, or everyone we can get our hands on with short notice. And we go to whatever this place Tabitha found is, because it sounds like that's someplace the Chancellor doesn't know we can find, and just from how you talk about it, it has great power. Exactly what we need."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The stone cliff face rose above them, stretching up, up to the sky. The only indication the terraced cliff was actually a waterfall was the faint trickle of water drizzling down its face. It really didn't look like much, but Dean could _feel_ the majesty in the air around him. The waterfall was magnificent and real... even if it was "turned off" right now.

From what Tabitha had said, that particular feat was a human achievement, accomplished without magic, long before the Chancellor began clawing at the world in his endless quest for power. Dean shook his head in disbelief. It was amazing to believe what extraordinary deeds were possible. He felt sadness and shame that people like him had set out to destroy that natural and scientific beauty with mundane magic, the likes of which one could find in countless realms. Not so with science and technology. Being a primarily magic-free realm, the physical world, of which Earth was a part, was the only place human ingenuity and curiosity had triumphed. Elsewhere there was no need to unlock the mysteries of science. Why figure out how gravity works if levitation is an elementary task?

He mourned the world that was lost and hoped it could rise again. He wanted to see that world. He wanted to learn what people could figure out how to make next after cars and cellphones and tiny computers. 

But did he really have a right? He might have been born in this world, but he was as magical as those who had set out to spell its ruin. 

"No I'm not," he murmured under his breath. Because that was also true. He had grown up—what he could remember, anyway—not knowing about the Fae or demons or angels or anything _magical_. Sure he had learned there were supernatural beings learned how to hunt them, but that was all about trying to help people live their normal lives, achieve their scientific greatness without succumbing to negative magical forces.

But just because he wasn’t like the Chancellor or the rogue Angels didn’t mean others would accept that. Was there a place for him, Fae king without a throne, in that world? If this worked out and the Chancellor got deposed, or banished or whatever that would look like, was there a place for Dean in it? And what would that look like? If they won this war, was Dean just trading one form of marginalization and alienation for another? What if they won and everyone asked him to leave? He wasn't human, after all, sure, he was born here, but how much credit would that actually get him among actual humans in the grand scheme of things. If magic was revealed to all, wouldn't he just be another oppressor? And if he overstayed his welcome—

_For countless millennia Earth was a safe haven, a beacon of freedom for those who did not fit within the strict categories of light and dark. It was a safe place where all were welcome,_ Missouri's voice echoed in his head. She'd spoken with such conviction.

It wasn't that Dean doubted what she said was true. No, he was certain of it. After all, his parents had both wound up here, and if not for the interference of the Chancellor and his agents, they would have had a long and happy life. At least as long and as happy as chance and happenstance will permit any human life to be.

But dream as he might about the world that _was_ , Dean couldn't change what had happened since. Fact was the Chancellor and his agents had come and trampled all over that universe, that Earth. They'd turned magic from a blessing and a miracle and subverted it into a tool of oppression. They'd subjugated and forced out the light Fae and radicalized the angels. And any dark Fae or demons who didn't agree with the Chancellor's singular vision of demon–dark Fae domination over Earth found themselves marginalized, banished, or murdered, just like everybody else. The Chancellor had done that. It was history and could not be unwritten. Now that magic had conquered the world, would the people of Earth continue to tolerate those who could use it? Could Earth ever be a sanctuary again? Or would humanity stand up and say "thanks, but no thanks," and wait impatiently while every last Fae exited the planet.

"I hate it, what we lost," Tabitha said, stepping up on Dean's left, her voice coming so sudden and so close, she seemed to speak in his ear, an angel—or devil—on his shoulder. "But we _all_ lost. You at least as much as the rest of us. I can see that, and I honestly believe others will too, if we give them the chance. After all," she turned to face Dean, "if we try to remake the Earth as a humans-only club we're just as bad as the Chancellor, and too blind to see it." She gave him a rueful, slightly bitter smile. "I like to have more faith in humanity than that."

"I think it's remarkable that you have that faith, and you and people like you are going to lead this world to a bright future." It was Dean's turn for the broken, ironic grin. "I'm just not that sure about me. Maybe it's time I take myself out of the equation. When my brother and the Chancellor are dealt with, it will be a good time for me to move on to the next world."

In the next moment, Tabitha did something utterly unexpected, and simply profound. She took Dean's hand, and squeezed—no kid gloves, no false platitudes, no secrets, no lies. "Don't you think you're more a part of this world? Look around you at who's gathered here, think about the friends you’ve made, all of us, human and Fae alike. Do you think Garth wouldn’t miss you if you left? Do you think Kat or Meg want to try to go forward in this world without a leader? They’re tired and need to rest. They need someone to show this is a place for all of us. Think about your niece. She may be more demon than other bloodlines, but she is _your_ family. And if your brother is gone, she will need you. You wouldn’t forgive yourself if you left her to be raised by demons. And more than anyone, you’ll understand how to be… different… in this world, without placing yourself above it. By your choices, you've bound yourself to us, made yourself a part of us in a way your brother hasn't. You're a part of this world, and I'll fight with every breath of my body to keep it that way."

"Thanks," Dean said, clearing his throat. He could feel it, the Chancellor's spell creeping in, threatening to suck away his air and make his muscles spasm so hard he couldn't stand. "Come on," he said, gesturing with his shoulder, "let's get inside. We need to start before it's too late for us to do anything."

Tabitha followed Dean over to the cliff face. The door blended in to the water-smoothed rock, but it swung open at Dean's touch revealing a dark, cavernous space within. "Really?" Dean asked no one in particular, "Talk about on-the-nose."

"You know the really unsettling part is that they've hidden this so well from the public everyone believes the government is producing all the electricity for this entire section of North America through the Grand Coulee Dam with this as backup," Tabitha said.

Dean reached over and flicked a switch, suppressing the urge to shudder when row after row of fluorescent lights flicked on, stretching from the door to the distant rear wall of the room, deep underground, casting the interior in a sickly green glow. "Well, Grand Coulee is big, right?"

Tabitha pinned him with an eye roll. "It's big, but it couldn't possibly cover the geography the government says. And saying this is supplemental backup?"

Dean thought back to the tiny trickle of water outside and pondered. "But the waterfall here can be turned on, right?" 

"Sure," Tabitha agreed, "but turned on, the falls are impressive, but not that powerful. That's the big lie, or one of them. They took away infrastructure to keep people in check, make sure the masses are dependent. War took care of most of it. And the rest, they keep going with smoke and mirrors. But it's all magic. They just conceal it, while telling the public magic doesn’t exist and disappearing anyone who says otherwise." 

Tabitha led Dean to a small cluster of folding chairs that were set up inside one corner of the building. He hoped and wondered if they had enough space, enough power, to pull this off. Viewing the chairs, Dean breathed, in and out, concentrating on what was to come. The curtain pulled back, they were here to show the magic, or the way the ruse tired and failed to trick everyone into thinking a single collection of antiques is powerful enough to power the entire world. 

Slow and certain, like gravity driving water over a cliff, the other seats began to fill. To look at it, Dean would swear that half the people flashed or shimmered into existence. Whether they did or not wasn't really the question. The issue was whether all of them, working together with Dean could bust a big enough hole in the Chancellor's surveillance network to declare victory.

When the seats were full, Dean spoke, his voice creaky with effort. "Thank you all, for coming here today. I know all of you took a huge chance on answering my summons. The Chancellor is big and bad and terrifying, and even if it is our goal to unseat him. But between that goal and now are a million choices. 

"You don't know anything about me, and I don't really know you, but I know you can feel it, the weight of the Chancellor's manipulations are pressing on you, suffocating you, and you’re not sure how much more you can take, how much more before you can't bounce back. The Chancellor is targeting us, trying to kill us off, so he can have this world, and steal it from humanity. But this is our world too, and if we fight back now, we have enough strength and enough knowledge to actually defeat him. Keep the Crown Prince from fully coming to power.”

Silence echoed throughout the large subterranean cavern and after a few moments Dean realized a few people were shifting in their seats. One finally raised his hand, a young man with olive skin and dark eyes, perhaps five or so years younger than Dean, fit but very weary looking. 

"Pardon me, but we do know who you are. I only came because Kat asked me to, she's been our leader through thick and thin, sticking with us long after we all would have given up hope. But you're here, and I know what you are. You're the king. You're the one he wants dead. The one he's been after all these years, the one this suffering was designed to destroy."

Dean suddenly felt like every eye in the room was focus him, judging him, realizing he was the one who was responsible for all their woes and suffering. He had hoped he could bring people together and get them to push back the Chancellor's oppression on a larger scale, much like he had done for himself and Kat, giving them enough of a buffer to recover, breathe a little easier. He'd been so swept up in his new found abilities and Kat's reverence of him that he hadn't stopped to think that others would blame him for their own suffering. He should have seen it coming. Now, here he was, in a big cave, relatively alone when it came to people he trusted, and they were going to turn on him. Shit!

"I am sorry for what the Chancellor has done to you, all. For what he did to me. I know he has been a negative force, a negative presence in your lives, but I promise you, if you work with me, together we can free us all."

He paused waiting for protests, but the room was remarkably silent. There were no protests or remarks of disgust. Instead the room remained silent, the stillness sending an eerie feeling up Dean's spine, belatedly remembering what Missouri had told him about his _voice_ his ability to show people the truth. He had tapped into his angelic gifts without meaning to… and that gave him an idea. Here he was, so naturally hidden, asking them to trust him, commanding them to listen, when they couldn’t see who he really was.

Without thinking, he immediately reached out with his senses, hearing the range and variety of nervous heartbeats, each one—aside from Tabitha’s and Garth’s—just a hair off of human rhythm. Their auras shown bright and shifting before his eyes. Even though they were quiet, there was still plenty of fear and distrust. But he could fix that. He could find the common ground, reveal himself to them. Give them his trust, so that they could trust him in return.

He took a few steps forward, away from the chairs and further into the open space of the chamber, untucking his shirt as he went, not bothering to hide his limp. He turned, slowly, showing them all his scarred human torso as he removed his shirt. “I was born here, and I have suffered at the Chancellor’s hand.” Dean pushed out with his magic, careful not to overexert himself, and tweaked the lights, nudging the fluorescent bulbs so the light they emitted was a more natural part of the color spectrum.

“Camouflage is one of my natural skills, but I assure you, I am not what you see. Not _only_ what you see.” He let his wings out. “I am seraph.” He flapped up, flying in a slow arc, before settling into a hover, a few feet off the ground in front of the waiting crowd. He blinked, flicking down his inner eyelids so when he looked out on the crowd again, his eyes were solid blue. “And elder demon….” 

The auras of a few in the crowd shifted, coloring with fear, but most of them were just confused or curious.

He let his scales out next. “And incubus…” 

Finally, relaxing into it he lowered himself gracefully to the floor, completing the transformation, his skin glowing bright with swirls and runes and patterns of silver that thickened with the intensity of his determination, as his ears extended and to delicate points. “And high elf,” he said, striding forward, his limp gone. “And I was born here. Like many of you, I would never be welcome in the fae realms because I don’t fit into neat little boxes. And like many of you, I want to see this world return to its rightful people. I want Earth to be a sanctuary again. And I can do that, but only if you help me.”

He launched into the explanation of what the Chancellor had done and what he was likely still doing. When he'd reached the end of the explanation, he took a deep breath, wings fluttering in anticipation and lifting him off the floor. He watched their auras, seeing the play of emotions and decisions, but not speaking, not altering or influencing their conclusions. 

One young woman cleared her throat and asked Dean if he would help them in negating the effects of the Chancellor's anti-light Fae protections. "It's a reasonable sacrifice," the woman insisted.

What sacrifice, Dean wasn't sure, but he had a sneaking suspicion she meant whatever price breaking the Chancellor's spell would exact on Dean. "Work with me, please. Help me to negate the effects of the spell on each of us, and to weaken the Chancellor's grasp on this part of the country."

"How will that help?" someone else asked. "Won't he know what we've done immediately?" The young man, probably still a teenager, had an aura full of fear and conflict. The man was half human, Dean realized, and probably very, very scared his actions might bring the Chancellor’s wrath down on his human family as well.

That seemed to be the cue for Dean to launch into an explanation about how the Chancellor was casting, or rather that he was not personally casting, and that oversight meant the Chancellor wouldn't discover their actions unless he was face to face with them. "I don't know if he would detect if someone had specifically participated in the spell or if their magic was less burdened even if they had personally not been engaged in the spell." He cleared his throat, breathing carefully to keep the threatening catch at bay. "Look... the point is simple. You're light Fae or angel. For more than two decades now it's been the same, you use your powers, you get sick. One upon a time you could pass it off as asthma, use an inhaler, and get by. Then the authorities started getting suspicious of people with asthma, so you were afraid to let anyone see you wheeze. Then it got worse and the inhalers stopped working. Many of you developed chronic respiratory problems even when you didn't touch magic. You tried to live as humans, but it was like the world wouldn't let you. In the past month or two it's been getting worse by leaps and bounds. Some of you have been really sick. Some of you are barely holding on. Others have already watched friends die, cross over into the unknown."

Murmurs echoed around the cavernous space, skeptical noises accompanied by hushed whispers and personal debate.

"You know we can't keep this up. You feel it. We're dying. You know this with a certainty you can't ignore. The Chancellor is pushing us out, crushing us under an impossible weight until we are no more. It's a war. We've been at war for decades, only now we're about to lose without ever having fired a shot. You know this. If we continue on, we will all be gone. We have to act _now_."

"What do we do?" asked a younger man who looked perhaps more frail than Dean.

"Are you crazy?!" someone else shouted from deep in the corners of the hidden warehouse. "If we do what he says the Chancellor will follow us and his goons will be waiting on our doorsteps when we get out of here."

"I thought you were part of the rebellion. You're here, aren't you, they're asking you to stand up and fight!" a woman shouted at the naysayer.

The naysayer didn't hesitate to shoot back, "I didn't sign up for this shit. We're supposed to be cells. I shouldn't know who you all are. When the Chancellor realizes what we've done, he'll take out our families. I don't have much time left here. None of us do. But I chose to spend whatever time I had left with my wife. Not condemning her to die with me. I'm sorry, I'm outta here!" The second speaker's retort was followed by the sound of someone teleporting out of the room.

Chaos threatened in the wake of that exit, with some people threatening to leave, while others decried the first group's behavior and argued to for everyone to stay, be locked in if necessary.

"Quiet!" Dean shouted at last, his seraph powers rising unbidden, setting off a coughing fit that actually _did_ get the rest of the room to shut up. When his lungs settled, he said, "I know this is going beyond the scope of your commitments, but you know and I know, if we don't act now we're dead. I know for a lot of you that means your families are at risk too. I promise you, I will not do anything to make it more likely our loved ones are hurt. But the fact remains, the administration is poised to wipe us all off the map. If we don't do something now, it won't matter what happens to our families, we'll all be dead. 

"We can do this. We can negate the effects of the Chancellor's magic on ourselves and anyone else we specifically target. Help me now. Give us all the strength to act. I have a plan, and I _will_ defeat the Chancellor or die trying. You have my word.” He infused his voice with as much truth as he could, and watched the Fae and angelic auras around the room, ripple with the realization of his sincerity. “At least this way, while I’m off keeping the chancellor busy, you’ll be able to enjoy some _quality_ of life.”

Finally, his words seemed to do it, as around the room people began dropping glamors and letting their true natures out. It was easy to dismantle the wards, undo the enchantments working together. The work was exhausting, but an hour later after the last of the chanting stopped, Dean felt himself take the closest thing to an unlabored breath he could ever remember taking on Earth.

Even so, he felt something _shift_ inside him, a tiny voice that seemed to be saying “I’m ready; it’s time,” even as he bunked down in the makeshift bedroom area Garth and Tabitha had set up using curtains and cots on the far side of the hidden room behind the waterfall.


	13. Chapter 13 - Flashback to Mary's Sacrifice

**Chapter 13**

Mary Winchester struggled to drag her uncooperative legs up the steep and winding staircase, the weight of the corrupt demon's enchantments weighing her down, making each breath, each movement harder than the last.

He was closing on her now. Crowley. The monster who would be king. She could feel him closing the gap between them--every spell he wove against light fae becoming stronger as he approached. Soon he would be upon her and she would die... and this time there would be no way to climb back across the void and re-enter the mortal realm of Earth. This time, her death would be final, at least from the perspective of those on Earth. She would be banished. Not to one of the fae realms who would accept one with tainted blood such as herself, but to the unknown regions, one of the infinite uncharted kingdoms far beyond the reach of even her father's light and influence.

As she pulled herself up the spiral staircase to the cold stone tower, a small part of her swelled with regret and guilt. If she had seen Azazel's gift for what it was, if she hadn't been so cocky and sure of herself, none of this would have happened. Earth would still be a human world, a sanctuary for those in the fae realms welcome nowhere else, where magic existed only in secret among the few fae who called Earth home and in fairy tales told as fantasy to small children. If she hadn't been so overconfident that she could cleanse any demonic taint Azazel imbued in her, she wouldn't be exiled from the light fae realms, barred from her parents' presence. She wouldn't have accidentally united the four bloodlines in her children and she wouldn't have given the demons the keys to seizing earth from humanity and unleashing hell.

The deafening pop and wail of a magic bomb detonated in the distance, perhaps a few miles from the unnatural stone castle in which she clung to the railing, an aberration in the Seattle skyline and one of the many visible, tangible signs of the presence of demons and their allies. The bomb struck in one of the few remaining untouched human neighborhoods then. Her heart fell. Crowley was destroying any potential allies for her son. Ensuring that he would have no way to turn, no means to remain hidden. The bombing would convince the ruling counsel to increase security again. There would be more patrols and identity sweeps. More inspections for any hint of magic or its knowledge. People would accept it and agree, desperate to have the terror removed from their lives, desperate to return to the fragile semblance of pseudo-peace of the past few years lest they fall into anarchy and oblivion like so much of the United States and the world. Of course the people didn't know, and the council tried very hard not to believe, that the same person who was behind every magical bombing and attack of the last ten years was the benevolent advisor whispering in their collective ear and guiding them further and further into a demon-controlled police state.

For thirty seconds the eerie and complete silence reigned. The air grew magically still, and Mary hauled her battered body up a half-dozen stairs, without making a sound. Not even the hammering of her heart reached her ears. She could see the top now. Green-tinted rays of sunlight filtering through a gap in the gray clouds and pouring through the open windows of the tower's pinnacle. 

At the end of the 30 seconds, the silence broke with the all-too-familiar tinkle that sounded like a rain shower of billions of glass shards landing on every surface. Then the screaming started. Human voices crying out in terror and agony, amplified by the magical sonic distortions of the bomb. 

Mary would never forget the day she first heard that sound. Six months after Sammy was born and less than an hour before Azazel came to collect on his due, amplifying the demon essence in her younger child, even her sacrifice unable to stop him. She had known the horrible sounds were magic. She remembered her lessons in the royal archives of the light fae capitol as her aunt and teacher instructed her on the history of the great fracture, the original wars between light and dark fae, angels and demons, that had fractured the magical realms into their current fragmented collection of separate light and dark realms, with angels and demons grudgingly slotted in along their points of magical affinity. When the dust had cleared after two millennia of war, the kingdoms had been divided and the bombs had been banned. The magical theory needed to create them lost to time, the knowledge wiped from the minds of survivors, and the details and schematics buried and locked away behind impenetrable doors with forgotten keys. Never to be used again.

The abominable magic bombs were certainly never to be used in the mortal realm, never to be used against humans, here on earth.

But that was exactly what Crowley had done.

When Mary had made her way back to Earth, weakened, but determined, after the four-year exile caused by her "death," it had been to a world changed. Fragmented into tiny city states, and war-torn outposts, with nothing but desolation and anarchy in between.

She reached out through the binding link--not the demonic kind, but an ancient light fae magic designed to help heal and protect--and felt Dean's presence. He was scared, and confused, and still in so much pain, but he was still alive, still breathing. She took a moment to link minds with him. She could feel his love for her as he could feel her love returned. He was sitting on the pavement, cool gritty concrete basked in the shadow of the old above ground parking garage. It was mostly abandoned, and smelled of the rank stench of piss, mold, freshly burned weed, and decay, but it was stable, safe from the bomb Crowley's minions had detonated. Dean didn't understand why she was hurt, or why he was hurt, his memory was already growing fuzzy. He understood she was about to die, and he was afraid and desperately wanted to be with her. Fear surrounded him, but the longer she stayed connected, the calmer he grew. She could feel his certainty and resolve. His sorrow...

 

Mary reveled in her son's presence as she hauled her uncooperative body around the last curve of the staircase, and pulled herself across the circular room at the tower's summit until she was propped up against the far wall, the solidity of rough-hewn stone at her back, facing the stairwell. 

Facing her end.

Satisfied the position was as defensible as possible she used the few moments it would take for Crowley to reach her to focus on Dean. Mary used the link between them to pull as many of his injuries as she could onto herself. Dean was worse off than she had realized. Crowley and his lieutenant, Alastair, had meant to kill her. They'd chased Dean and Mary from the park where they had been enjoying a day in the rare sunshine. They'd finally caught up with Dean and Mary in a parking garage a few blocks uphill from the waterfront park. The respiratory problems created by Crowley's anti-light Fae spells and wards had slowed Dean and Mary down to the point where they could no longer evade, at least not without using magic.

And Mary couldn't risk magic in public, not where anyone could see. Crowley had the entirety of humanity trained to fear magic and report it wherever it arose, if not because people understood magic was responsible for so much destruction of their world, then because the government's intolerance of all things magic and magic-adjacent was so well known that everyone feared being disappeared or executed if they saw something and didn't report it.

But in the parking garage, they were concealed from view. Mary had planned to open a portal, get her and Dean out of there and at least buy them some time to regroup, right out a plan of action. Their cover blown and identities unknown, Mary had been short on ideas and time.

But then they'd been ambushed. Alastair had ported in ahead of them, not caring if his magic was seen, while Crowley came in from behind. Trapping them. Crowley had tried to kill her then, unleashing a devastating wave of energy that would have blasted her across the garage and into the distant wall. Only he hadn't counted on Dean jumping in front of the wave in a self-sacrificing bid to save his mother.   
The blast had crushed Dean throwing him into Mary and knocking them both across the garage, but not before Dean reflexively unleashed a defensive blast of his own energy. Bright white light and dancing blue electricity flowing out across the distance between them, a startling contrast to the black and purple ball of energy that hit him, and throwing the demons clear out of the parking structure.

Dean had been near death when she'd regained consciousness. His pelvis crushed, spine shattered, left leg broken, knee twisted, bleeding internally, every breath more labored and rattling than the last. Her heart had broken, and for the first time since she'd looked down at Sam in his crib and saw a flicker of black eyes and demonic energy that shouldn't have been there, she once again felt like she had truly failed.

In theory, Dean couldn't, shouldn't be able to truly die, not when Earth was his birthright. But Dean didn't know that. There was so much she'd never told him, he had no reason not to let go, move on, and Mary wasn't certain that wouldn't count as voluntarily relinquishing his birth right, not to the rules of fate tat governed all magical beings across all the realms in all of reality. 

So she'd done the only thing she could, and tried to heal him, and when that didn't work, Dean slipping away with every passing millisecond, she'd done the only other thing she could think of, calling on an ancient ritual not practiced in perhaps a hundred human generations, she called on her magic and his and bound their lives to each other, pouring her life into Dean as she took on more and more of his injuries, stopping only when she was sure he might survive. It took every ounce of strength she had to leave him, and she didn't want to go. But there was no way to save them both, note without help they could not hope to secure in what little time remained. And there was one piece of old magic that could work, could give Dean a fighting chance and a real future, but only if she lured at least one of them away. 

She'd kissed Dean goodbye, staggered to her feet, clinging to the wall for support, and opened a portal to the one place she knew Crowley would have to follow--the tower in the center of his hidden domain, his enclave of magical land folded up and hidden within the Seattle City Limits, his headquarters. The one place where even wounded, Mary posed too big a threat to be ignored.

She reached out across the link and tried to calm Dean, calling more and more of his injuries to herself. She could feel his pain ease and his breathing even out, even as her own pain skyrocketed and her legs grew numb. She was dying now, but he would live. And even the ancient, skilled demon who now hunted him could not take that away. 

_I love you, Dean_ , she pushed to him across the distance. 

_Mom, come back, I'm scared, I don't want you to go! _came his reply.__

___We always knew this world would kill me eventually; I'm just going to have to go a little sooner than anticipated. It will be okay, you just have to have faith in my love for you, and eventually you will remember. When the time is right, you will figure it out._ _ _

___Remember what? Mom! I don't understand! What happened? What did I do? Why are you hurt? I saved you!_ Dean's fear was palpable across the distance, and Mary wanted nothing but to comfort him. If she could make it all go away... _ _

__"Dean, you saved me, but it's my turn to save you. This is bigger than both of us. This world _needs_ you, Dean. And I need you to save this world for me," she said aloud as she communicated with him across the distance. _ _

___I don't want you to leave. You're all I have. _Dean's words were a whisper in her mind, colored with defeat and resignation run through with determination and muted pain.__ _ _

_____You have more than you can ever know. And I'll always be out there somewhere. You'll just have to find me again. I'll always be here with you._ _ _ _ _

____She breathed through the pain and pushed her love across the link, taking one last moment to heal him. She couldn't heal Dean completely, because she'd die before she could save him, but she could give him a little more._ _ _ _

____It wouldn't be much longer now. She could hear Crowley's footfalls echoing on the stairs._ _ _ _

____She looked around her one last time, taking in the Earth, her home, her haven, her sanctuary, the place she had inadvertently doomed... the place she could still save. The sunlight was still tinged green by the magical residue and particulate of the bombing. A horrible sight, but beautiful, ethereal. The image took root in her mind, and she knew she would find a way to turn that sort of beauty into a haven for, all the way Earth had once been._ _ _ _

_____Mom, someone's coming!_ Dean thoughts came frantic across the link._ _ _ _

_____Hold on._ _ _ _ _

____And the wait was over._ _ _ _

____"I have to say, that was an impressive bit of magic you did there. Almost as old as my little trick, but not nearly so effective, seeing as you are definitely not long for this world, and Alastair will have his hands on Dean in short order," Crowley said, straightening his tie as he climbed the last three steps and emerged into the tower's circular spire. "I will give you credit though," he added, stopping his advance to brush grey dust off the shoulders of his black button-down shirt. "Showing up here, in my _enclave_ you actually had me nervous for half a second. Had you exposed this place to the humans, I daresay it would have fucked up my schedule quite a bit. My guard would have been busy for days altering memories, and useful people would have undoubtedly died." He smiled, a wretched, hateful smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I should have known better. You, Mary Winchester, born Mary Campbell, disgraced first princess of the High Court of all Light Fae Realms, have once again failed. You've always been a disappointment, when you weren't busy being a disgrace. You sold your soul, merged your royal blood with that of my kind and gave me the keys to the earth, all because you couldn't let go of your lover."_ _ _ _

____"I thought he was human!" she spat, flecks of blood flying from her lips and staining the pale stone floor._ _ _ _

____"But he wasn't. You just assumed. If you'd just let him die, John would have found his way back here eventually, he was born here after all, and we all know how difficult it is to banish someone from their birthright kingdom. But no, you never told him who you were, and you never delved into his past. And you were so arrogant, you _knew_ you could cleanse the demon from your blood. But you were wrong."_ _ _ _

____Mary held his eye, even though he was right. She wouldn't look away, because in her arrogance, she'd also managed to do something that would still give humanity hope._ _ _ _

____"You keep thinking you can beat me, but once again you failed. This world was never yours, but it will be mine."_ _ _ _

____"No!" Mary proclaimed. "This world belongs to all of us and to humanity. It will not be ruled."_ _ _ _

____"I know where John is."_ _ _ _

____The frank honesty of his words sent a spike of fear coursing through her, that brought more confusion from Dean across their link. She tried to reassure him, but couldn't slow the flip-flop of her stomach or the uneven pounding of her heart in her chest._ _ _ _

____"I've met your precious Sammy. He's such a curious and trusting boy. He'll make a wonderful figurehead."_ _ _ _

____"No." She shook her head._ _ _ _

____"Yes. After all, who else will take him in with John gone, by his own hand, no less. Oh yes. It will be an honest mistake of course, there are just so many ways to accidentally kill an angel, or a half-angel who's been dead once before. I’d say John will be joining you shortly, but we both know that when our kind gets kicked off this rock for good, we land in whatever hell fate drops us in. There's no reunion in death."_ _ _ _

____"No."_ _ _ _

____"Sam will be mine, and in another few seconds, Alastair will ensure Dean will never be a threat to me or his brother." Crowley smiled again._ _ _ _

____Dean's fear spiked. Alastair was in the room with him, crossing to the corner of the parking deck where Dean was holed up._ _ _ _

____He was close enough. It was now or never._ _ _ _

____"You're wrong," she whispered. Coughed, shook her head, wiped the blood from her mouth with a trembling hand, then repeated, louder, certain, "You're wrong. You'll never get Dean. You'll never find him. But when he's ready he'll find you, and when he does, you won't stand a chance. The Unity is coming... but you won't control it. It's not Sam--"_ _ _ _

_____I love you! Remember..._ she pushed to Dean holding the connection a split-second longer. Letting her memories and hopes and dreams spool out in the time between heartbeats, where they would always stay, waiting for whenever Dean was ready._ _ _ _

____She looked Crowley in the eye, a confused-surprised expression stuck on his face. "It's Dean."_ _ _ _

____Mary tugged on the link between her and Dean shielding him, and as the full weight of the injuries she'd taken on struck her, she lashed out, letting go of herself and exploding outward, every frisson of magical energy light Fae and demon alike lashing outwards, bursting across the tower's conical spire and racing along the link, surrounding Dean, exploding outward until both demons were tossed far, far away, unable to remember what had happened, how Mary had stopped them, or how they'd found her older son. The explosion was so bright and went on for so long, that when it finally stopped some 10 minutes later, the green tinge of the sky had cleared, revealing only Earthy blue sky and sun._ _ _ _

____Mary Winchester had left the Earth. But in a corner of an unnaturally clean parking garage, Dean Winchester struggled to his feet and limped home, knowing his mother had died and he needed to hide, but not quite remembering how or why, except that he needed to hide, stay safe, until it was time._ _ _ _

____Time for what he didn't know._ _ _ _

______ _ _

~~~

But in the enclave behind the waterfall almost 20 years in the future, Dean Winchester opened his eyes and finally understood.

"I know what I have to do," he said softly, as he stood and gathered his wits about him.

He cast one lingering look at Garth, his best friend in the world, and strode from the room.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Before he left, Dean had written a note. It explained, in detail, what the others should do—break as many enchantments as possible, reveal magic to the public, reveal the lie. Keep the Chancellor’s goons busy while Dean went to meet his fate.

He knew they would wake within minutes of his leaving. Even as he stepped out into the still-dark of early morning, he could feel Garth’s consciousness rising to the surface. Kat’s too. She was better now. Though she’d been too weak to participate in the breaking of the Chancellor’s wards, with the Earth less toxic to her magic for the first time in so long, she was recovering quickly. She would be okay. She would revive and be well enough to lead her rebellion if Dean failed.

Because while Dean awoke with an unshakable certainty of what he needed to do, that _now_ was the right time, he did not know if he would win. _Could not know_. He knew one possible future, knew the seconds were ticking down toward the moment that had haunted his nightmares since Sammy was born. Either his brother would kill him or…

Or Dean would face the unknown, which could be victory, or might not.

He let his feet guide him, his steps sure, even as he limped, his body clinging to its human form even as he let his true vision and hearing roam. His plan was simple. He would take down the illusion surrounding the falls. He would topple the mirage that appeared to be acres and acres of high tension powerlines and solar panels, that was covering for balls of throbbing, purple magical energy. That would cause a huge distraction that would begin to awaken the humans to what was going on, and create enough chaos so the others could act. 

They would spread out, using the distraction and the eased wards to open portals all over the earth, going wherever they needed to destroy the Chancellor’s illusions. 

And the authorities, the military police and the guards of the “power station,” they would swarm around Dean and take him into custody. Take him _to_ the Chancellor’s palace, the _true_ part of the palace. The castle with the stone tower and the dungeons beneath it. The tower where his mother had died so he might live. The castle he had been _so_ close to as Dane Colt, but never managed to see. And there, he would go from being the inexplicably destructive foe to a magical Trojan horse.

That was the plan anyway. Of course, being a plan, it didn’t survive the first engagement. 

When he got to the boundary of the magical wards surrounding the fake power station, he felt a sudden tingle. He’d been by there the day before, and had felt nothing of the sort. The only difference this time was that his Fae senses were active. He realized belatedly that the wards must have been set to sense passive magic, and he took a moment to curse himself for not taking more time to refresh his recollection of Missouri’s teachings, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Within seconds guards were approaching from all sides, seemingly materializing out of thin air. Only, _no_ they weren’t… he could see them, demons, every one of them. Young demons, lower demons, those who existed only as smoke and energy, forced to possess human hosts to truly affect the world. Not even as strong as the demon he had killed at the Chancellor’s palace. They were surrounding them, eyes flicking to pure black, growing closer. They thought he was a light Fae or maybe an angel. After all, he’d showed them nothing to the contrary.

When they were all within three paces, circle tightening ever faster, Dean blinked, inner eyelids descending, before he opened his eyes, solid blue. He could _see_ the demons, glowing within them, pulsating as they struggled to subjugate their hosts. “Howdy boys and girls,” he sing-songed, watching with bitter amusement as each and every demon stuttered and stopped, the expressions on their hosts’ faces turning comical with shock and incoherence as they couldn’t quite process what they were seeing. “I know,” he continued, “the blue eyes are a bit of a shock. See, story has it I’m descended from your great, great, great granddaddy or something. And you, are all going to have to give those hosts back.”

He reached out with his magic and gripped the demons. There were twenty-seven, three times three times three, ringing him in offset concentric circles, trying to use arithmancy to their advantage, only he grabbed every single one of them in an invisible vice grip and _yanked_. The demons tore apart like sparking purple and black tissue paper, remnants exiting their hosts with puffs and coughs of smoke.

“Go home, stay safe. Tell your friends what you saw, spread the word,” he said to all twenty-seven befuddled human hosts and with a nod, sent them running back towards the city proper.

The demons came faster and faster after that. Wave after wave, abandoning their work stations and trying to stop him as he pushed and prodded and pulled, with his magic, tearing down every illusion, until glowing, purple spheres hovered over obsidian stakes, high off the ground, impossibly suspended balls of magical energy, periodic pulses disappearing off into the distance as they traversed the portal that led to Seattle and the Chancellor’s castle.

He could feel the toll the magic was taking on him as he struggled to keep his form hidden. Instinctively his camouflage was as strong as it could be while showing what he needed to show, but it was difficult to keep using so much magic without settling into his real skin. He could feel his limp growing, his lungs burning, as what felt like a ten-ton weight settled on his chest. 

After twenty or thirty minutes, the lower demons stopped coming, whether he’d killed all of them at this installation, or they’d just grown wise, he didn’t know. But they were replaced by stronger demons, demons who owned their own bodies and couldn’t be simply torn asunder and chucked aside. Without the need to protect an innocent host, Dean dispatched these easily enough, calling forth his angel blade, and thrusting the dagger into each demon in turn.

But he knew it couldn’t last. The dagger was growing heavy, and his movements sluggish. One of the demon, a ruby-eyed dealmaker, got a slash in at him with a rune-covered knife that sparked and sizzled when it sliced through the skin on his arm. He felt something stutter and stop inside him, as his inner eyelids suddenly ascended, magical vision blinking out entirely, for a moment, before his senses stabilized and his eyes flicked back to blue. But it didn’t take long before one of the other demons managed to swing a sword—an actual, sharp, sword—through Dean’s bad thigh, sending him toppling to his knees. Moments later he felt his own blade wrested from his hands only to be plunged into his back moments later, blade punching through his chest to exit under his ribcage on the left side. This time, his senses cut out entirely, as the blade attacked both his demonic and angelic natures. It wasn’t a killing blow, not even technically, as it missed his spine and heart, but it still did damage, sending blood pooling in his left lung and damaging who knew what else. He watched with sickening fascination as the silver of his own dagger protruded from his abdomen for a moment before being yanked away. 

He was bleeding, hands clutching over the exit wound as he toppled sideways onto his shoulder. He heard the blade thunk and clang as it landed somewhere in the distance.

They bound his hands and feet, muttering about taking their prize to the Chancellor. At least, if they were telling the truth, this plan had worked, and Dean would be soon delivered to his target.

But as he lost consciousness, he could swear he saw and heard Tabitha running towards him, screaming out his name, tearing into the circular field that had once held an illusion and was now a ritual magical casting space laid bare for all to see.


	15. Chapter 15 - Interlude with Tabitha's Wrath

**Chapter 15**

**Interlude 2**

She stared at the horizon squinting through the sudden gusts of wind, but could see nothing. No shape, no trace, no hint of where they'd gone.

"Well that's just..." she started to say to herself, but the words folded back on her ears as if there was no air to conduct them. Her throat was parched, though a moment ago she'd felt fine, and the crushing sense of futility and defeat made her want to give up and leave. What was the point? It was literally _pointless_. Now that Dean was gone, the others were gone, there was nothing she could do. The angel dagger was a leaden weight in her hands and it dropped to the ground in a defeated slump. She should leave. 

No sooner than she thought the words, her feet were already in motion, taking back the way they'd come, to the edge of the circle and out of the clearing. It was almost like it wanted her to leave. ...

It was almost like _they_ wanted her to leave. 

Anger, frustration, and resentment flared in Tabitha's chest and seemed to flow through every vessel and vein in her body, suffusing every pore with righteous indignation. 

_They_ wanted her to... Well who were they to tell her _anything_?

She tightened her grip, wrapping both hands carefully around the hilt, lifted the angel dagger, and stomped back into the center of the clearing and turned her face up towards the sky. 

"I'm _human_ , goddammit!" Tabitha raised the angel dagger and swung downward with it, stabbing the point into the hard, frozen, ground, and burying it a good six or seven inches so it was now supported and stood up on its own, leaving her hands free. 

"I'm human and this is _my_ world. _MINE_!" she screamed, the force of it so hard she thought her throat would bleed, and it was just enough to overcome the strange bubble of science that existed within the clearing, making her words carry on the wind "And you have no right! NO! RIGHT!" she jabbed her right hand towards the skye, punctuating her words, with each thrust. "—to this place, this realm, this world! You don't belong! So get the fuck out!"  
"This is my planet! MINE! This realm belongs to _humans_! We had discovered rules and laws and science and we were figuring this place out. Building something and yeah, it wasn't always pretty and sometimes it was totally fucked up and backwards and broken and two steps forward and a dozen steps back," she spat, "but it was OURS! Those were our mistakes to make! Our future! And you came here. And you brought your WAR!" She jabbed again, "and your bullshit superiority, and you thought because you had _powers_ and you were older, than us that you could just come in here and FUCK! IT! UP!"  
She leaned over and pulled the angel dagger out of the ground, keeping her balance as the icy earth yielded. "Well, ya can't," she said with a bitter laugh half to herself the muffled landscape swallowing her words as soon as she'd spoken. She lifted the angel dagger. "YOU! CAAAN'T!" Tabitha screamed stabbing the heavens with the angel dagger. "This is my world! And I _claim_ it! For ALL humans! The rest of you can get the fuck OUT! Go back to your own realm!" She jabbed they sky again. "Go destroy your own world! Go fight your war on your OWN LAND! Where your magic is nothing special," she shook her head, laughing with the anger to seething, bubbling out, it was the only way she knew not to cry. "Go kill your own children!" _Jab._ "Destroy your own infrastructure!" _Slash._ "Erase your own culture!" _Jab._ "I don't care how powerful and special you are! Get the FUCK OUT!" She screamed, jabbing at the air again.

With each shout and each movement, it felt like she could hear herself a little better. Something she was doing was making it through the muffling and breaking out into the world, free of suppression. And each shout made that ball or flaming, tumbling, writhing fury grow and swell. 

"You HEAR ME?" she screamed again. "I CAST YOU OUT!" she bellowed, turning her face up at the sky thinking of the promise on the other side of the veil as she reached up and plunged the angel dagger as deep and hard and fast into the Earth as she possibly could

 

For a moment she just stood there, chest heaving with exertion. For a second the muffin worked, and the sound was swallowed away. But after a few seconds, the silence seemed to break, the word "out," popping through the suppression and carrying on the wind. 

Tabitha was frozen, the impact of the angel dagger in the ground, jolting, as the blade struck something hard, vibrating through her hands and into her arms and chest. It was so _strange_. She could feel the _thud_ as the blade struck something unyielding before giving way. Tabitha looked down at her hands and arms and everywhere as the crack that had formed in the earth gave way revealing the blue glow underneath, the fracture spread out, running and falling into the earth. _A ley line?_

She looked from her hands to the angel dagger and to the earth, to the sky, to the angel dagger, and back again. Could that be an answer?

Shocked with her own discovery, Tabitha ran back to wake Kat and Garth, and any angel she could find still at the secret compound behind the falls. Get enough daggers, they might just break the demons’ hold over much of their land!


	16. Chapter 16 - Interlude - The Crown Prince's Fears

Chapter 16

**Interlude with the Crown Prince’s Fears**

“My Lord, there has been a disturbance,” Brady’s words snapped the Crown Prince from full slumber to wakefulness in the span of a heartbeat.

He was fully transformed, wings wrapped in a protective cocoon over and around Ruby as he slept buried deep within her. His arms squeezed tight around her gravid form, the spike of terror Brady’s tone sent through him muting only when he felt his daughter kick back. Soon, she would be born soon. But not soon enough. They’d both pushed all the magic they dared into speeding Ruby’s pregnancy. Even then, they both estimated it would take over four months for Ruby to reach full-term. Leaving more than a month remaining. Sam was sure they didn’t have that much time. 

Sam had been plagued with dreams as of late. Dreams of his father. Of accidentally exposing his father to a combination of potion and spell that was toxic to angels. Sam had forgotten for so many years, had forgotten it had been _Crowley_ , the Chancellor, who had given him the idea, told him it would be a perfect _gift_ for his father. He remembered watching with joy and rapt anticipation, hoping to please his father with all he’d learned, only for that smile to freeze and then fall in terror as his father’s eyes had rolled back in his head, and he’d asked, “Sam, what did you do—” only to drop dead on the floor in front of Sam.

Crowley had found him after, told him he was a good boy. That his father was weak. That only Crowley could protect him and help him to reach his full potential. One day, he would be king.

Only now, on the precipice of fatherhood, he found himself reexamining every moment, every decision. A part of him no longer trusted the Chancellor. (A part of him wonder if maybe he never did trust Crowley.) Night after night, he dreamed of his wife dying in childbirth. Crowley ripping Sam’s infant daughter from his arms and running her through with a cursed knife. Sam staring at blood on his hands as a strangely familiar man begged for his life.

Rather than joy or power or lust or victory, Sam felt only grief and guilt and foreboding. He was afraid to leave Ruby alone for any amount of time, lest he return to find her or their child had been murdered in this absence. 

And now… Brady, intruding on the Royal Bed Chamber. News of a disturbance.

“What happened?” Sam asked, as he pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Ruby’s neck, pushed a pulse of love at his daughter, and slowly pulled out, folding his Fae form back into his human body, so that when he turned to face his friend, he was naked, but fully human in appearance save for his pitch black eyes.

That was another thing, lately he couldn’t get his eyes to stay human for more than minutes at a time. There was too much _danger_ that human eyes could miss.

“It started at the power plant in Spokane,” Brady said. And from there the tale unfolded. Explosions all over the world. Ley lines under demon lands being struck, fractured. Spells failing. Glamors and illusions failing in front of humans by the thousand or perhaps hundreds of thousands.

By the time Sam was dressed, he was ready to tear the world to its foundations. To hell with them all. It was time to wrest control of the Earth from the humans and their pitiful Fae allies once and for all. Only Brady’s next words stopped him dead in his tracks.

“There’s a prisoner. Mr. Green says he _killed_ over one hundred and fifty of our troops in Spokane. All of them pure-blood demons, thirty-five of them elders.”

“How?” Sam asked, thinking back to the fateful anomaly the day his daughter had been conceived. They never had figured out what had happened, even though it had been nearly three months and a good portion of both the Chancellor’s resources and his own had been dedicated to getting to the bottom of that mystery.

“Silent exorcisms that reduced the demons to smoke and an angel blade was used to slay the elders.”

“How many?” Sam asked.

“I told you, over one hundred and fifty,” Brady responded, sounding confused.

Frustrated, Sam slammed his hands down on the dressing table. “No, how many attackers!”

“Just the one, sire, and you’ll never believe it, the guards on duty here at the castle dungeon say the attacker is Father Colt!”


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Dean awoke with a cough and a groan, partially clotted blood spraying the pale, rough-hewn wall in front of him. He knew this place. It was the tower in which mother had died. He’d seen it through her eyes… only this was underneath, the dungeon.

In captivity, threatened, Dean’s Fae powers begin to surface more fully. Hiding would do him no good here. This was it. He would be taken before the tall man and… before the Crown Prince-- _Sammy_ and the Chancellor, and he would meet his fate. Whatever that fate might be.  
He let his vision shift again, as his scales manifested all over his body, and his skin shifted to its natural silver-tinged hue, the patterns slow and subdued, but sure. He kept his wings in, but kept flipping his inner eyelids up and down. The more belief he had in himself, the more he could fully tap into his potential in this realm. 

Magic swirled around him. He could see in the stones. In the foundation, stretching through the earth. It was corrupt, not natural, forced in and out of place. He could feel it now, stretching out, even though this close to the Chancellor the anti–light Fae wards were stronger than they’d been in Spokane, he could withstand them. Something had shifted in him, permanently. He’d lost some of his fear, and his brother’s mentor no longer held such sway over him. 

Reaching out, hand moving to mimic the path of his mind and magic, he felt the protections surrounding Crowley’s compound and _pulled_ , uprooting the wards, shredding the glamors, destroying the illusions and revealing the palace for all to see, both the respectable corporate-esque manor house and the pseudo-gothic castle. All around him alarms sounded, and the clatter and clump of running feet tore down the hall towards his cell.

As the salted-iron door clanged open with a resounding groan, he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. He just held out his hands for them to be bound, sleeves shoved back, palms up, pearly white triquetra displayed for all to see.

Two of the guards knelt. A third bowed. The first two were swiftly exorcised by their superiors, but it wasn’t enough. As they dragged them through the hall, Dean’s bad leg not even functioning after his recent exertion, everyone who saw the mark reacted. A few spit on him. Others gasped. But still others, looked ashamed or dropped to one knee. There were too many for the Chancellor’s guard to kill them all.

Soon enough, _too soon_ he was dragged into a room. A _chamber_. Cramped and lit with torchlight, with a solitary pillar in front of him, there for one purpose and one purpose only. Execution. He knew this room. It was the room of his nightmare. Only now that he was here, though it still made his pulse quicken and his stomach turn, he found it had lost much of its hold on him. He understood now, what his mother had done. And if he died, he would send out every last joule of energy and destroy everything in his path that the Chancellor had ever touched. It wouldn’t free the entire Earth, but it would do enough damage to give everyone else a fighting chance.

Or… 

Or, he would have to wait and find out what fate had in store for him.

 

He didn’t have to wait long. No sooner was he secured to the post, a slug to the gut and a slap in the face for good measure, then the guards left the room and the Chancellor and Crown Prince entered.

“Sam…” Dean said letting his voice trail off.

Confusion bloomed in Sam’s eyes. “Father Colt?” Sam asked, voice faint and distant.

“I’m afraid—” the Chancellor began, obviously about to enter into some sort of explanatory diatribe or outright lie, but Dean just spoke over him.

“You know, who I am, Sam,” Dean said, holding up his arm, showing the triquetra. 

“I don’t…” Sam started, thumb working absentmindedly over the triquetra on his own wrist. The opposite wrist from Dean’s and purple rather than white, but the same none the less.

“You know me, Sammy. I promised I’d always be there for you, always watch over you even when I couldn’t be with you.”

Crowley’s eyes flashed back, but they both ignored him. 

“You can’t be… you can’t be Dean. Dean’s dead. Alastair executed him for unlawful use of magic and trying to escape. It was years ago. When dad died. It can’t—”

“Mom sacrificed herself to save me, and wiped everyone’s memories so they’d never find me. But she didn’t wipe yours. Look inside yourself, you know it’s me, Sammy. I’m your big brother. I love you.”

“Dean?” Sam asked uncertainly.

Crowley’s eyes widened at this before his expression grew smug. “Yes, Sam, your brother. The only real threat to you. A threat to your daughter. Do you think he’d let her live? After you bred with a demon. He hates our kind. The Duchess is so close to term, but she’ll never make it another month, not if your brother lives another moment. His _friends_ will hunt her down and _end_ her!”

Sam’s aura flared wide open, magic swirling and pooling around him even as he maintained human form. “Never! I will kill him before he can touch her. I don’t care who you are or what trick you’re weaving!” Sam shouted at Dean, wildness suddenly in his eyes that wasn’t there just moments ago.

“Finish him!” Crowley commanded, his eyes flicking to pure black. And like that, they were in Dean’s nightmare.

Only when Sam held out his hand, and tugged, Dean understood now that Sam was trying to tear Dean’s demon heritage apart, much like Dean tore the smoky forms of lesser demons from their hosts. But Sam _couldn’t_ hurt him. Not now, not with Dean’s understanding of what he was. 

“We’re descended from elder demons, Sam, you can’t tear me apart,” he said, letting his inner eyelids flick down, and leaving his eyes solid sapphire. 

Sam shuddered a moment, his control wavering, before giving up and turning to the knife. This knife was the same as the one that had stabbed Dean at the power plant. Or the same _design_ anyway. Ragged edge with tiny barbs and runes throughout, it could kill a demon or an angel, Dean could tell by looking at it. It thrust in, and tore a new gash in his already injured lung. 

Dean was drowning, but he was not afraid. Yes, Sam could kill him and banish him, but Sam would need to _believe_ he could, and right now, Dean wasn’t so sure.

Crowley was growing frustrated and Sam becoming angrier. It wasn’t long before Sam pulled out the angel blade. Sam’s own, Dean realized. Dean had lost his back in Spokane. 

But could he really _lose_ a sword that was a part of him? He wondered, and realized with some surprise, that his blade was _right there_ , waiting for him to pull it from the aether and into existence, just like it always was.

“You will no longer haunt me! You will not threaten my family!” Sam was shouting.

“I am your family. The fact you can draw that sword proves it. You’re an angel, like me. Just like you’re a demon, like me. And light Fae and dark Fae,” Dean let his ears lengthen to their natural shape, “and born here on earth. We don’t have to be enemies, Sam. I will keep your daughter safe.” He paused, wheezing and coughing around the blood, but resolved to go on. “Crowley, on the other hand, he’ll murder your daughter.”

“No,” Sam breathed.

“He killed mom, Sam. And he used you to kill Dad. And he wants you to kill me because then he can use you to get what he wants. But you don’t want to give it to him.”

Sam’s face froze, conflict and terror warring across it. The blade wavered in his hand. “It doesn’t matter what I do. Even if he dies now, they’ll never stop coming for me.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but Sam just cast a quick look at Dean.

“You’ll guard my daughter with your life, love her like she’s your own?”

“Of course,” Dean stammered, not grasping the full import of Sam’s words, until it was too late. Sam moved suddenly swiftly, making a full transformation in one go. In the next breath, he was stabbing, swinging the blade down, only rather than striking Dean, it was impaled into his own chest. “You’ll never use me now, Crowley,” Sam said, as he dropped back to the floor.

“Nooooo!” Dean screamed, as he completed his transformation by instinct.

Crowley had been moving toward him, and was already swinging his own version of the barbed runic knife, even as his face froze in shock upon seeing Dean’s true form.

But Dean was already moving, angel blade thrusting out in his suddenly unbound hands as he turned.

He felt a blinding pain and a thud. He blinked. Blinked again, vision stuttering before it focused. Crowley stood before him, demonic form flickering for a few more seconds until it faded out of existence, his body dropping, dead, Dean’s blade sticking out of his chest. 

It was a victory, but the _pain…_

Dean looked down as his own chest in sickening horror, as he dropped to his knees, bad leg going weak as blood poured down his chest. Crowley’s knife was embedded in his heart. It was getting harder and harder to hold on. It was—

“Dean,” Sam croaked, coughed, then repeated, “Dean.” 

Dean managed to fall to his hands and knees next to his brother, unable to get over the sick fascination of seeing the blade embedded in his chest.

“I sacrifice myself willingly to save you, to give my daughter a better life. But he,” his hand twitched towards Crowley’s still form, “can’t kill you.”

_No, he can’t!_ Dean realized. He might flicker out for a little while, but he’d be back. What had Missouri said?

“It’s your birthright,” Sam whispered. “One of us ought to keep it.”

“Don’t—don’t go,” Dean stuttered.

“Mom and Dad are out there,” Sam said. “You’ll look after her?”

“Yes,” Dean reassured, knowing they were talking about his soon-to-be niece.”

“Good,” Sam sighed, and with that, his eyes closed and the breath left him.

Dean let the blackness take him, too.

~~~

“Dean,” a soft, melodic voice prompted, calling to him from across the void.

There was no pain here. No loss. No grief. No work. Just peace. He wasn’t aware of any heavenly realms, not even pureblood angels were from anywhere that nice. But if heaven existed, he had to think it would feel like this. _Peaceful._

“Dean,” the voice prodded again.

Reluctant, and all too sure the agony of his injuries would come flooding back the moment he opened his eyes, Dean gave in to the voice’s request, and surfaced to consciousness.

Mary Winchester was staring down at him, smiling. “You did it, Dean.”

He was in a dream. Soft bed, silk sheets. Honeysuckle and magic on the air. The sky was green. The birds were singing… Only it wasn’t a dream. Not this time. 

“What—where are we?” he asked.  
“The universe is a pretty vast place. Not all of the uncharted realms are bad. I found this place years ago. I died and woke up, and saw green sky and for a moment I thought Crowley had detonated another bomb. But I wasn’t on Earth. This place was so beautiful.” She shrugged. “Seemed like a shame to let this place go to waste. After all, I am a queen. Why not watch over my own realm, give everyone a place to turn, a sanctuary for light and dark, demon and angel, another safe place.”

“You, built all this?” Dean asked, incredulous, as his mother took his hand and led him out to a stone walkway with an intricate crystal railing overlooking majestic cliffs. 

“I’ve had help, and many years. I do my best to snatch souls as they pass through the veil between realms, directing all I can here so they don’t get lost. Your brother is here, though even in this realm, his wounds are great, and it will be some time before he is well enough to be up and about. 

“Your father is here too. Watching over Sam.”

Dean felt a sudden swell of need and wanted nothing more than to run to his father’s side. But Mary was still holding his hand. Holding him back. 

“Am I dead?” 

“You know our kind can’t truly die,” Mary answered.

Dean frowned. “I remember being stabbed. I remember falling next to Sam— am I banished?”

It was Mary’s turn to look away, as she crossed to the railing and gripped it tightly. “You are born of earth, and no one can take it from you if you are unwilling, except someone else with the same birthright.”

“Like Sam,” Dean answered.

“Yes, but Sam did not kill you. He did not strike a killing blow. On earth, your body is grievously wounded and even with magic, will take some time to heal. But it is your choice, whether you stay or go. But if you stay… you will be banished unable to go back.”

“I made a promise. Sam’s wife is pregnant. I promised—”

Mary turned and closed the distance between her and Dean. “And you will do the right thing, I know. Because you are my son, and I love you. I just wish you could stay.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

“Can I come back?” Dean asked. “Without dying, getting banished, can I—”

This time Mary smiled. “Perhaps, in time, you will learn to find this place even when you are not close to death. You can lead others too it, like my dear Aunt.”

“I’ll be happy to show Missouri the way,” Dean answered. 

Mary squeezed his face tight, then pulled him closer, wrapping him in a warm hug. “I’m _so_ proud of you, Dean. I knew you could do it. Save your brother, save the world. You make me so proud.” She squeezed him tighter then stepped back and looked him in the eye, tears welling in his. “Now go back and make me even prouder. Build a world that’s safe for my granddaughter.”

Dean took her hands and squeezed. “I will.” He looked out over the beauty before him, eyes pausing for a moment on his brother’s still form, his father, and finally his mother, before he closed his eyes and followed Missouri’s teachings, slipping back through the veil and into his human body.

After all, he knew now, his family would always be here, and eternity was a very, long time indeed. But for now, he had work to do.

~~~

Waking up hurt more than anything Dean had done before. Even coming back from the Antechamber while the Chancellor’s spells had been woven and layered over the area hadn’t hurt this much. When Dean had died (if he’d died), it hadn’t hurt this much. Then the pain had been more realizing what Sam had done. Feeling the loss—possibly forever, or as long as he could conceptualize, anyway—of the brother he’d just regained. But this, this _hurt_.

Every cell in his body was on fire. He could feel the stab wound high in his abdomen, slicing into his lung, and his heart, the blood pooling in his chest, making it impossible to breathe. He was drowning. If he could have opened his eyes, the world would have been greying out around the edges. But he couldn’t open his eyes. He couldn’t move. He just _burned_.

But even as he marveled at how much it hurt, he could feel himself healing. The blood receded from his lungs, the pain in his abdomen dulled, and the burning sensation in every cell receded, dulling into a soft tingling. His fingers twitched, eyelids fluttered, and suddenly he was coming back to himself.

“Dean, dean?” a frantic, familiar voice was saying over and over again.

Dean blinked his eyes open at last, squinting in the harsh light. It was lamplight, not sunlight, and he realized he was lying where he had died or fallen. But how long ago was that? Some part of him knew that before he’d awoken, he had been with his mom for what felt like days, maybe weeks, recovering, and now he understood at last what his third dream meant. She had found a way to find them, all the lost souls, find his father and his brother and bring them back together. Sam was with her…

Which explained at least on some level why Sam’s body wasn’t _here_ , but as Dean sat up and looked around, the Chancellor’s body was still there, eyes open, unseeing, and definitely dead.

“Oh my god, you did it!” Tabitha’s voice shouted as she ran into view.

“I did?” Dean asked, his mind still trying to catch up with dying and coming back to life, the time difference between realms. “I did,” he repeated. “It wasn’t me. Wasn’t just me, I mean. Sam—”

He looked over at where Sam’s body had been, feeling the reality of his loss sink in.

“Where is the Crown Prince?” Garth asked. He was the one who had been calling out to Dean. 

“He’s gone,” Dean said softly, sitting up. His shirt was sticking to him with rapidly drying blood, but yet he felt more alive than he had since his mother died the first time. “Sam sacrificed himself to save me. It’s, it’s okay, though. He went willingly. He’s—he’ll be okay.”

“You’re not just saying that,” Garth realized.

“I saw him. He’s with my mother. She, she found him. And she found dad. She’s setting up a new haven, a place everyone supernatural can go without fear of reprisal. And Earth, Earth will be humanity’s realm once more.”

“What will you do?” Tabitha asked. 

“I never wanted to be king,” Dean admitted. “I hope this world will survive without one. Learn how to lead itself again. But I understand what I have to do for all the Fae left here, and I’m not ready to leave. Not when there’s the possibility of finally having a life. And not when I have a promise to fulfill.” 

“What promise?” Tabitha asked, looking confused.

This time, Garth answered. “His niece. Sam’s daughter.”

Dean nodded. “I promised to watch over her. Make sure no one tries to use her as a pawn or a meal ticket.” Dean closed his eyes slowly, coming to a realization he’d resisted for a long time. “I guess if that means I have to step up and lead the Fae who are still here, I can do it.” It was terrifying, but for the first time in his life, Dean felt like he had a future.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. The world’s changed already, I think it’s time we see it.”

“I’m ready,” Dean said, his mother’s smile coming to mind. He knew now, his family was out there, in a different realm, but they were alive, making the universe a better place. And now it was his turn to bring hope and a future to a world long lost. And thanks to his mom, he _was_ ready.

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my wonderful artist, [Eprimacol](http://eprimacol.livejournal.com)! Please check out all of her art for this story [here](http://eprimacol.livejournal.com/1293.html)! I will be adding much of the art into the body of the story, but at time of original posting was having trouble with the links, so please do be sure to check out her Art Master Post!
> 
> Thank you also to my sounding board Engel82 for convincing me to avoid a particular character pairing. You saved this story from growing one too many plot tumors.
> 
> A huge thank you to Carlos, my beta, who once again put up with my ridiculous schedule and impossible time demands to whip this story into shape.
> 
> And of course, a huge, huge thanks to [Wendy](http://wendy.livejournal.com), moderator of the venerable spn-j2-bigbang, for hosting another wonderful and super-organized challenge. Thank you!! 
> 
> Finally, thank you all for reading. This story went through many iterations and drafts and was inspired by many sources and influences, numerous types of fae and magic, all blended together and blended into Supernatural canon with a hefty does of alternate universe. I hope the end result was enjoyable.


End file.
